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Class *"P 2 $ 

Book £> 

Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 










BETTY STANDISH 

i 


B V THE SAME A UTHOR 

the romance of 

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI 

THE ARTISTIC SIDE 
OF PHOTOGRAPHY 

THE ROMANCE OF 
SANDRO BOTTICELLI 



BETTY STANDISH 


A Romance 


BY 

A. J. ANDERSON 

M 


/ 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1913 

Ci^T/lA 



Copyright, 1913, by 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
Under title “The Last of the Traceys” 



©CI.A343456 

* . 


o 




TO MY COUSIN 

G. E. W. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

A September Morning . 


PAGE 

I 

II 

Beside the River . 


I I 

III 

John Tracey . 


20 

IV 

Breakfast 


27 

V 

Concerning Love and a Lace 



Handkerchief . 


42 

VI 

A Morning Call . 


48 

VII 

In the Heat of the Day 


63 

VIII 

Woman in the Abstract 


70 

IX 

Rabbits and Pigeons 


80 

X 

Dinner 


94 

XI 

After Dinner 


106 

XII 

The Colonel Intervenes . 


119 

XIII 

Between Two Fires 


132 

XIV 

By the Otter .... 


143 

XV 

A Small Red Spaniel . 


151 

XVI 

An Important Letter . 


162 

XVII 

Across the River . 


1 65 

XVIII 

At Coombe Lodge . 


175 

XIX 

In the C.O.’s Quarters 


189 

XX 

A Wedding .... 


196 

XXI 

The Paris Express 


208 


vii 


CONTENTS 


viii 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXII Concerning Jealousy . . 213 

XXIII The Paris Express — Continued . 220 

XXIV The Honeymoon . . . 230 

XXV The Jesuit 239 

XXVI The Barrier .... 250 

XXVII At Tracey 259 

XXVIII Destiny 273 

XXIX The Influence of the Book . 283 

XXX Expert Advice . . . .300 

XXXI The Preparation . . *315 


XXXII And Counter Preparation . 326 


BETTY STANDISH 



CHAPTER I 


A SEPTEMBER MORNING 

If one takes the South-Western to Exeter, and 
looks out of the carriage window some twenty min- 
utes before the train reaches St. David’s, and just 
after it has passed the small town of Coombe Ottery, 
one cannot help noticing a large marble house that 
stands part way up the hill on the other side of the 
River Otter. 

Like many of the Georgian houses round Exeter, 
Tracey is “ classical ” in design; but it differs from 
the other classical houses in so much as it is built 
of dazzling white marble instead of comfortable 
bath-stone, and each fluted portico column was 
originally planned by Messer Leon Battista Alberti 
for one of the Medici palaces, and imported from 
Florence at a huge cost. 

Above this house there are woods of pine, fir, and 
chestnut; around it there are groves of beech trees, 
thickets of rhododendrons, and lawns studded with 
tall elms; below it the park sweeps down boldly to 
the river: so, although the house is magnificent, 


2 


BETTY STANDISH 


Nature has removed all suspicion of vulgarity, and 
anyone with a shred of imagination may fancy that 
he is looking at a Reynolds background. 

In an autograph copy of Roscoe’s “ Rambles 
through Devon,” published in 1821, which I have 
by me, there is printed: “ Coombe Otter is a 
mighty agreeable town, where you can lie soft and 
fare well, with many a pretty lass to pass the time 
of day.” Then the author has pencilled at the foot 
of the page: “The cyder pressed in the Manor of 
Tracey is mighty fine; but perish me if the new 
villa itself be not like a damned sugar plum!” 
Perish me if the old rip hath not described Tracey 
mighty aptly ! The facade is now toned down with 
a facing of trellis-work covered with roses, against 
which the pillars show up bravely. 

John Tracey got up with the first of the dawn, 
drew up the blinds and leant out of his window; 
the mist was lying in long even billows down the 
valley; the trees rose through it like sharp rocks, 
and the tops of the distant hills looked as though 
they had been cut out of blue-grey cardboard. He 
had returned home, after more than ten years’ 
absence, only the previous evening, and the inde- 
scribable scents of a September morning were float- 
ing up from the park. 


A SEPTEMBER MORNING 


3 


A tourist who spends a summer in visiting the 
towns mentioned in his guide book will understand 
Devon as little as a September tripper understands 
London; but let him spend an autumn amongst the 
coombes and valleys, where the soft mist sucks up 
the smell of the earth through its covering of leaves 
and pine-needles, and he may get some slight grip 
of the real Devonshire. These scents of Devonshire 
are indescribable, but the memory of them will make 
a Devon man feel very homesick when he is forced 
to live elsewhere. 

John Tracey tubbed himself vigorously, shaved 
with much discomfort, dressed himself in a suit of 
worn tweeds, and turned instinctively towards a 
corner cupboard, wondering if the old butler had 
remembered; then he smiled, for the cupboard held 
a tumbler half filled with milk and covered with a 
square of cardboard to protect it from imaginary 
dust, a bottle of soda-water and a tin of biscuits: 
they were arranged exactly as they used to be 
arranged ten years ago. As a matter of fact, an 
English butler, who has been in one family for 
nearly half a century, will never forget any of the 
family tastes. 

John filled up the tumbler with soda, munched a 


4 


BETTY STANDISH 


couple of biscuits, and went down the two flights 
of stairs— walking softly as he had walked in his 
father’s time, so as not to awake the sleepers — and 
along the passage that led to the gun-room. 

Here again the scents stirred his memory; for 
who can smell the mingled smells of gunpowder, 
cleaning rags, oil and boot dubbin, without remem- 
bering the old cock pheasant which rose like a 
rocket from the bed of rhododendrons, and went 
whirling and twirling away amongst the pine trees? 
a bird that was as elusive as a woodcock and as 
disconcerting as a Catherine-wheel. Who can forget 
the lucky shot that thumped it down among the 
undergrowth? Who can forget the excessive tough- 
ness of the bird at table? For the old English 
breed of pheasant may be the most sporting bird 
going, but it cuts as tough as a weathercock. 

John sniffed luxuriously and, going to the corner, 
took down a twelve-foot, spliced hickory which 
hung from a brass hook close to the ceiling. It 
was his favourite trout rod, and it felt as stiff and 
springy as ever: the splice had been wrapped 
round with fresh leather and bound tight with new 
whipcord; the line had been renewed, and the cast 
was armed with John’s special pattern of blue- 
upright. He opened the fly-box, it was filled with 


■* . \<\ .f\ 

A SEPTEMBER MORNING 5 

his favourite flies. The new keeper was clearly a 
man of worth ! 

Then he put on a pair of well-greased boots, 
buttoned up his gaiters, and went out into the 
morning. 

Now those who know anything of the history of 
Devonshire will recollect the rhyming tradition that, 
ever since a Tracey assisted at the murder of 
Thomas a Becket, 

“The Traceys 

Always have the wind in their faces.” 

The family records, which have been carefully kept 
for several hundred years, show that this ill-luck 
has been absolutely consistent, and that it has taken 
a certain set form. One Tracey will lose his money; 
the next will retrieve the family fortune and lose 
his wife at the birth of her first baby; the third will 
find that “ his wife did become a well formed source 
of jealousy until he loosed her from him.” 

John Tracey was not in the least superstitious; 
he was not even religious, unless one could call a 
fixed code of ethics combined with a strong sense 
of honour a religion; but, for the life of him, he 
could not help feeling that the Tracey luck was 
uncanny, and, though he did not definitely believe 
that the curse of Thomas of Canterbury could affect 


6 


BETTY STANDISH 


him personally, he had so far avoided the thought 
of marriage. The fact that he was the last of a 
most unfortunate family had made him somewhat 
graver than most men of his age and circumstances. 

But now there was no sadness in Tracey’s face. 
It was a morning that made the mere act of living 
a physical pleasure, and John whistled softly to 
himself as he walked down-hill through the park, 
scuttling scores of nervous rabbits. 

He ploughed on through the wet grass, leaving 
a clearly defined track behind him, until he reached 
the meadows beside the river: here, for all practical 
purposes, he might have been wading knee-deep. 
He climbed the tarred railings which separated the 
meadow from the road that led to Coombe Ottery 
and, standing on the bridge, inspected the pool 
below. 

“ Gin-clear,” muttered Tracey, “ and not a fish 
moving.” The cold night had evidently killed off 
all the fly, and the day was not yet warm enough 
to hatch out a fresh rise; nevertheless, he mounted 
a red-palmer in place of the blue-upright, and pro- 
ceeded to fish down-stream— for he was a Devon- 
shire man, and understood the value of fishing down 
a quick stream with a well-hackled fly. 

It was a glorious morning, but cold enough to 


A SEPTEMBER MORNING 


7 


make motion a necessity; the mist was still clinging 
in wisps to the river; the grass was still ash-grey 
with the autumn dew; whilst the sun was preparing 
to rise and warm the air. But, although Tracey 
had a great love for Nature, he was far too keen a 
sportsman to notice anything except the work in 
hand, and he fished the stickle at the head of every 
pool, the broken water between the pools, and cast 
his fly well under either bank; but he fished on until 
he reached the boundary, without stirring a single 
fish. Then John Tracey sat down and lit his pipe. 

Now, on a morning like this — when the black- 
birds were busy tapping for worms, the cattle 
browsing steadily in the meadows and the human 
stomach crying “ cupboard ! ” — it was evident that 
the trout were feeding; in fact, they were so busy 
looking for worms and larvae that they had no time 
to notice a chance palmer. So, after a minute’s 
thought, John pulled up a clod, found a couple of 
small pink worms amongst the grass roots, stripped 
the hackle off his fly, mounted the worms on the 
hook, and proceeded to fish up-stream. A man may 
do what he likes on his own water, and many con- 
sider clear-water worm fishing a fine art. 

He had fished the first pool carefully; he had 
fished the babble which separated it from the next 


8 


BETTY STANDISH 


pool; and then he commenced to fish what was cer- 
tainly the best pool on the river, beginning at the 
stickle. Here the stream had taken a sharp bend, 
eating into the hillside until the far bank resembled 
a railway cutting: it was an ideal pool for a heavy 
fish. 

He cast his worm lightly, it travelled halfway 
down the stickle and checked; after dropping the 
point of his rod for a few seconds, John struck and 
the reel shrieked. It might have been a five-pound, 
or even a seven-pound fish, and such trout are rare 
on the Otter. 

And then, just as Tracey was fighting with all 
his skill, just as he had defeated one last frantic 
dash which would have brought the trout into his 
hover beneath the brushwood, there was a splash, 
and a half-grown spaniel puppy jumped off the bank 
and went for the swirl of the fish. 

What happened, Tracey could never exactly tell: 
there was a strain on the line, a jerk, and— the trout 
was gone, and the hook was firmly fixed in the 
puppy’s hind-quarters. 

Good Lord ! ” he muttered. He was far too 
much astonished to feel angry; and, besides, he 
found himself involved in a new problem. 

First, he tried slacking out the line, whilst he 


A SEPTEMBER MORNING 


9 

called the spaniel ; but the puppy wanted to go home, 
and its home was on the other side of the river; 
it was perfectly obvious that he could not let the 
puppy land, snap the line, and run off with a yard 
of gut trailing behind it. Next, he tried playing the 
puppy as though it were a fish, giving it the butt 
and trusting to the force of the current to swing it 
round and land it below him; but the strain of the 
line on the puppy’s hind-quarters destroyed its 
balance, and its head went under. 

Tracey was almost at his wits’ end, when he 
heard a faint “Oh!” and became conscious that 
there was a girl standing on the opposite bank. 

“ What are you doing? ” she cried angrily ; and, 
at the sound of her voice, the puppy made an extra 
violent struggle, lost its balance completely, and 
vanished. 

“ Oh! how cruel! ” she cried; and, although she 
was on the other side of the river, he could hear her 
foot stamp. “ Can’t you see you’re drowning my 
dog?” 

Tracey ought to have felt relieved, for this young 
person was clearly Providence; he ought to have 
felt amused, for the situation had its absurdity; but 
he was only annoyed. “ If you’ll be kind enough 
to stop shrieking,” he shouted back, “ and go down 


IO BETTY STANDISH 

to the next bend, and call your — dog ! ” “ Thanks ! ” 
he shouted, as the girl reached the bend. “ Now 
call, whilst I slack the line ! ” 

She stood at the end of the curve, where the 
river had thrown up a ridge of pebbles as it pre- 
pared to bend away in the opposite direction, and 
called the puppy — he unreeled gradually, so that the 
current should not catch hold of the slack of the 
line — and, after a gallant struggle, the puppy lay 
panting on the grass with the girl kneeling beside 
him. 

Choosing the head of the stickle below the pool, 
where the water was shallow, Tracey waded over, 
reeling in the line as he went; then he knelt down 
to examine the wound. 

“ It isn’t very serious,” said he, taking out a pair 
of scissors in readiness. “ If you’ll hold the patient 
quite still, I’ll operate”; and within two seconds, 
he had forced the point of the hook through the 
puppy’s skin, snipped off the barb, withdrawn the 
hook, and stood up to stretch himself. 


CHAPTER II 


BESIDE THE RIVER 

“ Pm awfully sorry I was so rude,” said the girl, 
bending over the puppy. Tracey could see that the 
back of her neck was exceptionally pretty. “ I — I 
didn’t realise it was an accident.” 

“ You thought I did it on purpose?” he asked, 
laughing. 

“ I thought it was — clumsiness,” she answered, 
and the back of her neck told him that she was 
blushing. “ But the way you did — everything — was 
so workmanlike — and — I’m awfully sorry ! ” 

“ If you’ll think a moment,” suggested Tracey, 
wishing that she would look up — for the back of 
her neck made him curious to see more — “ you’ll 
realise that I was much ruder : I told you to ‘ stop 
shrieking! ’ ” 

“ So you did ! ” she answered hopefully. “ Sup- 
pose we cry quits ! ” — and the girl looked up. 

Now there are three ways in which a girl can 
look at one, with endless variations: she can look 
straight at one, which is jolly; she can look down 


ii 


12 


BETTY STANDISH 


at one, which is very jolly; or she can look up at 
one — and if the girl is disposed to be friendly, and 
if her eyes are almost purple, and if her cheeks are 
flushed, and if the sun has just risen and is playing 
hide-and-seek in her hair 

Tracey was prepared to find her one of those 
charmingly fresh country-bred girls who take their 
dogs for a swim before breakfast, and, judging 
from the nape of her neck, he had expected to find 
her pretty; but when his eyes met hers: “Sup- 
pose — we cry — quits,” said John Tracey awk- 
wardly. 

“ But what happened? ” asked she, without a trace 
of shyness. “ When I came on the scene, you were 
fast in the spaniel, and — it must have looked awfully 
funny.” 

“ It must have looked awfully funny,” he 
repeated, metaphorically shaking himself until he 
had recovered his self-possession. “ There was a 
fool of a man on one side of the river, fast in a 
half-drowned puppy, and wondering what on earth 
he could do; and there was a girl on the other side 
of the river, dancing about, and shrieking awful 
things.” 

“I wasn’t dancing!” she answered with indig- 
nation. 


BESIDE THE RIVER 


13 

“ Well — stamping. I could hear you stamp, 
right across the river ! ” 

“ And you promised to cry quits ! ” said she, with 
her chin in the air. “ Then I’ll tell you what I saw! 
I’d lost my puppy — yes! I know he’s troublesome 
— and I found he’d disturbed some man who was 
fishing — and the man had thrown his fly across him, 
and hooked him, and was trying to drown him. Do 
you wonder I was angry? ” 

“I apologise! I apologise unreservedly!” said 
Tracey. (The girl looked perfectly adorable in 
her mock anger, with her chin in the air.) “ I was 
a brute! After your apology, and after we’d cried 
quits ” 

“ It wasn’t nice, was it? ” and she shook her 
head. “ But if you’re really sorry, and we’ve really 
cried quits, you might tell me what happened?” 
The impropriety of talking together, without any 
sort of introduction, had not occurred to either of 
them. 

“ I wish I knew what happened,” answered 
Tracey. 

“ But you must have some idea ! ” 

“ I’d fished down the stream without a rise; I’d 
substituted a worm for a fly, and was working my 
way back No ! you needn’t look shocked ! John 


14 


BETTY STANDISH 


Tracey’s my oldest friend, and I may poach if I 
like. Well, I’d hooked a trout — a thundering big 
trout, and before — — ” 

“Was it a huge fish?” 

“ It was a huge fish ! ” 

“Then you’d actually hooked Thomas?” 

“ Thomas? ” Who in the name of wonder was 
“ Thomas ”? 

“Oh! He’s just the fish of the pool. They 
call him ‘ Thomas ’ because he suspects everyone, 
and everyone’s been trying for him. But please 
go on ! ” 

“ I’d hooked Thomas, and he was fighting like 
a demon. There was a splash, and I was playing 
your puppy. That’s all I know.” 

“But what happened?” she persisted: she was 
feeling a little impatient with the man’s unimag- 
inative truthfulness. “ The puppy couldn’t have 
taken off the trout and hooked himself! ” 

“ Of course it might have been the nymph ” 

he suggested. 

The girl gave a delightful, hopeless little shrug 
of her shoulders: now he was getting too imagina- 
tive ! 

“ Then,” said he wearily, “ since you’ll neither 
have fact nor fiction, let us try to reconstruct the 


BESIDE THE RIVER 


i5 

crime : your puppy sees something moving in the 
river something that might be some new kind of 
water-rabbit — so he jumps in to investigate; the cur- 
rent carries him against the line, which gives a new 
direction to the pull of the line; the trout, having 
been lightly hooked, breaks away; the hook springs 
back and buries itself in the puppy. It sounds 
simple.” 

“Then — my dog ruined everything!” cried the 
girl with real distress. “ Oh! I’m so sorry! ” 

Tracey wanted to say that he was not sorry; he 
wanted to tell her that he blessed the trout and the 
puppy (and even the worm) for bringing about 
their acquaintance; but he wisely contented himself 
with pointing out that he had been provided with 
a new object in life— the capture of Thomas. 
“See!” he whispered; a large fish had risen up- 
stream in the middle of a deep and very still pool. 
“ ^ you keep it a secret, we’ll poach that trout! ” 

He caught a couple of daddy-long-legs on the 
grass, placed them on his hook, and, crawling along 
behind the alders, cast directly over the rising fish. 
There was a swirl; and it was a case of “ Pull man! 
Pull pounder ! ” 

“ Prithee! ’Tis a lusty trout! ” quoth Tracey. 

“ The like of which will make wholesome eating,” 


1 6 


BETTY STANDISH 


answered the girl, taking up her cue without a mo- 
ment s hesitation, “ provided you can succeed in van- 
quishing this monster.” 

“ Such fish are but seldom to be met with, and 
are only to be conquered by skill and patience. 
Mark how he struggles ! ” 

’Tis a noble fight, master ! And now you have 
him at your mercy!” She slipped the landing-net 
from his creel-strap, and sank it in the water. 

“ Now, I pray you raise him gently.” John had 
manoeuvred his fish above the landing-net. “ Any 
undue haste might make this monster struggle.” 

“ Gracious ! ” cried the girl as the trout nearly 
jumped out of the landing-net, and she flung him 
quite ten yards inland, smashing the cast. 

“ That last ‘Gracious!’ rather spoilt the dia- 
logue! ” laughed Tracey; “ but where did you learn 
to talk like Izaak Walton? ” 

“ I have a father, kind sir,” answered she, “ who 
hath an infirmity of the eyesight; and I read him 
the gentle art of Master Walton, as well as other 
of the English Classics. I am no simple maid, but 
a cultivated person.” 

He did not trust himself to look at the girl— his 
eyes might have said more than it was wise to say 
—so he busied himself with wrapping the fish in 


BESIDE THE RIVER 


17 

grass and rushes, and in binding the parcel together 
with a yard and a half of fishing line. “ This trout, 
stewed with thyme and verjuice, will make you a 
toothsome breakfast,” said he. “ I’m afraid I don’t 
quite know what ‘ verjuice ’ is, but it sounds as if it 
ought to be in the dialogue.” He did not ask her 
to accept the fish — he just gave it; for game that 
has been killed and flowers that have been plucked 
are the two things that anyone may give to anyone, 
without either taking a liberty or running the chance 
of a refusal. Then he went down to the river and 
washed his hands, and fumbled in vain for his 
pocket-handkerchief ; the girl smiled and handed him 
hers — it smelt of lavender. 

“ You will join us, master? ” said she. “ We live 
hard by, and we shall, I warrant you, make a good, 
honest, wholesome hungry breakfast. Besides,” she 
added, “ my father will want to thank you for sav- 
ing the puppy. It’s a very valuable puppy! ” 

“ I seem to know the breed,” said Tracey. 

“ It’s one of the Tracey spaniels. Mr. Tracey’s 
keeper gave it me. Allow me to introduce you to 
Peter Tracey.” She turned her head and whispered : 
“ He likes to be called by his family name; he’s a 
very particular puppy! ” 

He hid a smile, for although the Tracey spaniels 


i8 


BETTY STANDISH 


were all called by names which began with a “ P ” 
— such as “ Pluto,” “ Placid ” — the name “ Peter ” 
was reserved (on account of some obscure joke) 
for the Tracey peacocks. “ How are you feeling 
now, Peter?” inquired Tracey. “Better?” The 
puppy held up one paw, which John shook 
gravely. 

“How strange!” said the girl, eyeing John. 
“All the Tracey spaniels are said to hold up a 
paw when a Tracey speaks to them — at least, so 
the keeper told me: Peter’s never done it before.” 
Then she drew her bow at a venture: “ Won’t you 
come back to breakfast, Mr. Tracey? Pm sure my 
father would like to thank you.” 

“Mayn’t I call later in the day?” asked he, 
looking down at his wet breeches with their knees 
stained by the red Devon earth. 

“Oh! how thoughtless of me!” she cried im- 
pulsively. “ Please go home and change at once! ” 
Then she grew a little shy and she felt her cheeks 
flushing — not because the man was Tracey of 
Tracey, but because the indefinite fisherman of the 
September morning had materialised into a real per- 
son with a postal address and a parliamentary vote. 
“ Good-bye, Mr. Tracey,” she said, holding out her 
hand. “ We live at Coombe Lodge — we’re your 


BESIDE THE RIVER 


19 

tenants, you know. I’ll tell my father to expect 
you.” 

He took her hand and, before either he or she 
realised what he was doing, he had kissed it. 

“ Oh ! ” cried the girl. 

“ I’ve been abroad for so long,” said he diplo- 
matically. As a matter of fact, he had been in 
Japan, where hand-kissing is not the fashion, and 
this had been a sudden impulse. 

So he went his way, and she went hers; and the 
image of the girl remained before Tracey’s eyes. 

As for the girl, she rubbed her hand in the dew 
and wiped it on her dress, for she could not find 
her handkerchief; but, although she was engaged 
secretly to a man in the infantry, and the touch of 
Tracey’s lips ought to have disappeared, the kiss 
was still there. 


CHAPTER III 


JOHN TRACEY 

“The Traceys 

Always have the wind in their faces.” 

Now the subject of a family curse, with its heredi- 
tary bad luck, cannot be dismissed as an absurdity 
any more than it can be accepted without question ; 
for there are authentic cases amongst some of the 
older county families of a run of ill-fortune de- 
scending, from father to son, through many suc- 
cessive generations. 

The case of family portents and death warnings 
is quite a different matter, since the fact that a dog 
howled outside a house— or an owl hooted, or a 
bird beat its wings against the window, or a tree 
fell in the park— at the time of a death may be 
merely a strange coincidence. Besides, dogs howl, 
owls hoot, and trees fall without anything serious 
happening; it is only when a “portent” chances 
to coincide with a death that it is remembered; 
unfruitful portents ” are forgotten within a week. 

But when we come to the curse which is said to 


20 


JOHN TRACEY 21 

have descended on the Traceys through their murder 
of Thomas a Becket, we find something that cannot 
be explained away by any theory of coincidence. 

This curse appears to have taken effect from the 
date of the Canterbury murder, and the curse seems 
to have fallen in an unbroken sequence of infidelity, 
ruin and bereavement. To instance the three previ- 
ous generations : John’s great-grandfather put away 
his wife “ for just cause — so much as Holy Church 
doth permit”; John’s grandfather ruined himself, 
partly through some speculation, partly by import- 
ing Italian marble to build the present mansion; 
John’s father made a fortune in America and mar- 
ried a gentle and graceful wife, only to lose his 
bride some ten months after their marriage, and 
three weeks after John was born. Turn over “ The 
Book of the Traceys ” — it is kept in the third shelf 
from the ground, close to the library door— and 
you will find a record sequence of misfortune that 
has gone back for centuries. 

There is no actual record of how the curse fell, 
or if St. Thomas himself cursed his murderer; in 
fact, a beautiful prayer in Dame Jane Tracey’s Day 
Book, penned about 1735, which asks St. Thomas 
to pray that “ our temporal tribulations may lead 
to our eternal glorie,” seems to assume that the 


22 


BETTY STANDISH 


curse was simply the result of the act. Of course 
“ The Book of the Traceys ” may not be authentic 
— manuscripts have been forged before now — but 
the sequence of misfortune can be traced from other 
documents, for at least a hundred-and-twenty years, 
and the ill-luck of the family is proverbial. 

But the acknowledgment of the historical truth of 
the Tracey misfortunes is not an acknowledgment 
that they were the result of a curse : as Christians, 
we must deny the justice of one man (or one act) 
being able to curse unborn generations; as reason- 
able persons, we must protest that such a curse 
would be unreasonable. 

If the Traceys had misappropriated church prop- 
erty or stolen land that belonged to the poor, the 
sin would have remained in the family until restitu- 
tion had been made, and the curse of Heaven might 
well have rested on any member of the family who 
knowingly enjoyed the fruits of the plunder; but the 
modern Traceys are no more responsible for the 
crime of the original Tracey, than our gracious king 
is responsible for the hasty words by which his 
ancestor incited the crime. 

But (a) can we deny the power of hereditary 
temperament? (b) Can we deny the overwhelming 
influence of a fixed belief? I do not think so! For 


JOHN TRACEY 23 

experience teaches us that when a strong man re- 
solves to succeed, the chances are that he will do 
so; and if he should doggedly expect misfortune, 
trouble-hunting is the most certain of all sports. 

Thus, the Tracey who lost his money through 
speculation might have stopped building Tracey, let 
the property, and moved into a smaller house; but 
he seems to have muttered “Kismet! ” mortgaged 
the estate, and continued the expenditure. The 
Tracey who put away his wife, expected infidelity; 
and to suspect a woman, without cause, is the surest 
way to drive her into unfaithfulness; besides, poor 
Mrs. Tracey seems to have had no chance to vin- 
dicate her character; she was quietly “put away so 
much as Holy Church doth permit,” without any 
form of trial. 

The case of the wives who died after child-birth 
is less easy to understand; but, in the case of John’s 
mother, a delicate yet healthy woman was simply 
saturated with the idea that she would die in child- 
bed, and the exclusion of every breath of air from 
her bedroom (and similar “ precautions ”) would be 
enough to kill a far stronger woman. 

Taking one thing with another, the Tracey curse 
seems to have been the result of a fixed belief, held 
by a race that was strong to the verge of obstinacy. 


24 


BETTY STANDISH 


The practical result of misfortune, acting on the 
Tracey character, was remarkable. It produced 
fatalism, but it was a Christian fatalism — Memoria 
Pii aeterna! There was an obstinate adherence to 
the old religion, an obstinate loyalty, an unswerving 
devotion to honour and an overwhelming sense of 
duty in every Tracey, even the most unfortunate. 
They were hard men, these Traceys, severe and 
somewhat lacking in charity, but they were very 
self-sacrificing and very just. 

When Mrs. Tracey died, John’s father devoted 
himself to the improvement of his estate, the wel- 
fare of his tenants and, above all, to the practice 
of his religion: Tracey became more like a monas- 
tery than a private residence, and it was not a good 
place in which to bring up a sensitive and some- 
what imaginative boy. 

From his earliest recollection, John was expected 
to attend daily Mass (which he liked), to be present 
at English Prayers before Mass (which wearied 
him), and to spend one solid evening hour over 
Night Prayers, Litanies and Penitential Psalms 
(which tired him to death). Again, long walks 
with an austere and reserved man, only enlivened by 
admonitions on the duty of facing inevitable trouble 
with a firm courage and a strict adherence to the 


25 


JOHN TRACEY 

path of rectitude, were depressing. Again, a train- 
ing which taught piety, fortitude and self-sacrifice, 
whilst it left out sympathy and charity, sapped the 
very foundations of his belief. So, when at the age 
of twenty-four John quietly told his father that he 
had ceased to believe in the Catholic religion, he 
was deserving of pity rather than censure. 

There was no quarrel, there were no recrimina- 
tions; John was told to leave Tracey until after his 
father’s death; and, although he met his father once 
or twice in town, he remained away from Devon- 
shire until he succeeded to the estate. 

So when Tracey drifted to Japan, he found a 
people and a religion which were intensely sym- 
pathetic to him. Dulce et decorum est pro patria 
mori might have been the motto of the Traceys, 
but they would have died through a dogged sense 
of duty. “ It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s 
country ” is the motto of Japan, and the Japanese 
soldier goes to death, braced by the smiles of his 
sweetheart and his own interior happiness. This 
is the visible expression pf Shinto, which first 
attracted Tracey. 

Then he discovered that “ the Way of the Gods,” 
which is now termed Shinto, taught something 
more; and that the sweetness, courtesy and 


2 6 


BETTY STANDISH 


unselfishness, which distinguish the Japanese, are 
part and parcel of their religion. This was a 
revelation ! 

Finally, he found that the hereditary principles, 
in which he had been brought up, were the essen- 
tials of Shinto; but here there was no unswerving 
legacy of misfortune, no mechanical curse — every- 
thing was alive. First, so he learnt, there is the 
hereditary disposition — and it behoves each man 
to mould a good disposition for his heirs to inherit. 
Next, there are the spirits of good ancestors whis- 
pering good and wise suggestions, and the spirits 
of evil ancestors whispering unworthy suggestions. 
Last, there is the man’s conscience, which will 
enable him to accept the good and reject the evil, 
with perfect rightness. 

I do not mean that Tracey became a Shintoist, 
or that he ceased to be an Agnostic, but rather 
that his European ideas of individualism became 
shrouded; he was not a John Tracey with duties 
to self, but a John Tracey with duties to those 
dependent on him. And yet, he remained a Tracey 
who was severely English. 

However, a truce to moralising! 


CHAPTER IV 


breakfast 

Lunch in the balcony of the Cecil, with the 
Thames sweeping along outside and the band play- 
ing so softly that it does not hinder conversation, 
is a luxurious meal; so is dinner at Prince’s: for 
in both these restaurants there is plenty of room and 
plenty of air. 

Now the dining-room at Tracey had been cleverly 
planned; it could dine thirty without crowding, or 
seat one without giving that sensation of loneliness 
which is so often felt in big rooms; also, the art 
of breakfasting was part and parcel of the Tracey 
traditions. So, when Tracey had bathed in water 
heated to 115 F. and dried himself by an open 
window after the Japanese method, he put on a suit 
of soft flannels and came down to find a breakfast 
that ought to have rejoiced his heart. 

The September of 1908 was glorious, and the 
morning had by now grown warm enough to allow 
the table to be placed by the open windows; the 
fresh air carried in the smell of stephanotis and 
27 


28 


BETTY STANDISH 


mingled it with the scent from the rose-bowl which 
stood in the centre of the table. 

Then, as to the breakfast itself — it was that 
supreme meal, a country breakfast. Everything was 
home-grown, from the bacon and ham which were 
smoked over a green oak fire up at the farm, to the 
bread which was made from wheat grown on the 
estate and ground at the mill down by the Otter; 
the grapes came from the Tracey vinery, the peaches 
had ripened in the old walled garden; the pears 
were warm from the sun, the milk was warm from 
the cow, and John’s heart was warm from the girl 
by the river. In fact, it was a breakfast that would 
tempt an Englishman to fill himself, so that he might 
fish or shoot or work until it was time for eight 
o’clock dinner. When food-reformers realise that 
the English climate calls for a hearty breakfast, and 
devote themselves to the simplification of lunch, they 
may do some good. 

John Tracey entered the dining-room through one 
door, as the footman brought in the warm dishes 
through the other. He seated himself at the table 
and, turning over his post aimlessly, rearranged the 
letters in a neat pile beside his plate. He opened 
the Daily Mail — the other London papers would 
come by a later train — glanced at the headings and, 


BREAKFAST 29 

dropping the paper beside him, helped himself to 
some trout. 

What a perfectly delightful girl that was, thought 
he, and yet how confoundedly elusive. He could 
see her standing with the sun behind her, and her 
hair like spun sunshine, but he could not recall her 
features. He could remember the pose of her figure, 
and he could remember the exact word that expressed 
it — lithesome — but he could not remember if she 
were short or tall. He could not remember the 
colour of her eyes, but he could remember the tone 
of her voice; there was a certain fulness about it 
that haunted him, and yet it was not a deep voice — - 
it was a voice that suggested colour — “ blending the 
purple of the iris with the sparkle of the dew-drop,” 
as the Japanese poem describes such a voice. That 
gave him the key to her eyes — they combined the 
purple of the iris with the sparkle of the dew-drop. 
“ Of course she was only a pleasant memory and 
he did not want to meet her again,” thought he. 
“ Thank Heaven she lived at Coombe Lodge, which 
was less than a mile from Tracey,” thought he — 
which two thoughts appear contradictory. 

Then he took out a small, crumpled handkerchief 
from his pocket and unfolded it. Mind! Tracey 
was a perfectly normal Englishman of thirty-five, 


30 


BETTY STANDISH 


not in the least given to sentiment, and he was acting 
simply from impulse, without conscious volition. 
He examined the handkerchief; there was a hole in 
one corner of the lace, and it smelt of lavender; it 
was marked “ B.S.” “ I wonder what the initials 

stand for,” thought Tracey. He did not attempt 
the surname, but he found the first initial interesting. 
“Beatrice?” thought John. “No! the girl could 
never have grown like that if she’d been called 
Beatrice.” “Blanche?” “No!” “Betty?” “I’ll 
swear she’s called Betty! ” He emptied his teacup. 

“ I love my love with a ‘ B,’ because she’s beau- 
tiful,” he mused, unconsciously playing the game 
that Mr. Pepys writes of in his diary. 

“ I hate her, because she bewilders me.” 

“ I took her to the sign of the Blue-upright.” 

“And fed her on — what did I feed her on? — I 
fed her on Beautiful Things.” 

“ And her name is Betty.” 

Then he realised his folly, and muttered 
“ Damn ! ” 

The door opened noiselessly and the butler 
brought in a fresh rack of toast. John crushed the 
handkerchief up his coat sleeve. 

“ I hope you are enjoying your breakfast, sir? ” 
inquired the butler anxiously. “ There, sir, you’ve 


BREAKFAST 


3i 

touched nothing but trout, and fish is but poor trade 
at best. Shall I cut you a slice of bird, Master 
John? Cold partridge always was your fancy.” 

“ But it’s only the second, Gill,” protested Tracey. 
“ The birds won’t be eatable.” 

“ Knowing that you were coming home, sir,” 
suggested the butler gravely, “ Weymouth may have 
acted a trifle previous. I think you’ll find the birds 
satisfactory, Master John and, without more ado, 
Gill cut off the breast and wing from one of the 
partridges and placed them before his master. 

“Who’s taken Coombe Lodge?” inquired 
Tracey, casually. 

“ A Colonel Standish, sir.” 

“A bachelor?” asked John. 

“ No, sir. A widower with one young lady. 
They came just before the master died.” And Gill 
crossed himself devoutly, as his lips articulated the 
prayer for the dead. 

There was silence for a time, the old butler 
standing still behind Tracey’s chair; for he had 
carried John a-pick-a-back when he was a child, and 
he felt loath to leave the room. There is no friend- 
ship that is more sincere than the friendship between 
an old family servant and his comparatively young 
master. 


32 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Is Colonel Standish much of a sportsman, 
Gill?” asked Tracey presently, returning obliquely 
to the subject of interest. 

“ Too rheumaticky, sir, to do more than potter 
about with a gun. But Miss Betty ” 

“ Then her name is Betty,” thought John. 

“ Miss Betty is a wonderful shot at a pigeon — at 
least so Weymouth says. Not that she’s one of 
those suffragettes, Master John — I don’t hold with 
no suffragettes — but she’s a wonderful shot for a 
lady.” 

“ I met a lady down by the river, this morning,” 
began John, casting about for the exact amount to 
tell. “ She’d a spaniel pup with her — it looked like 
one of our dogs — and I managed to get it 
hitched up in my line. I’d some difficulty in loos- 
ing it.” 

“ That would be her, sir. And I’ll be bound she 
thanked you prettily, Master John? ” 

Tracey grinned to himself. 

“ Miss Betty has the right word for everybody,” 
continued Gill; “and a kind word for everybody. 
She’s wonderfully well liked.” 

Again there was silence, whilst Gill added 
another slice of partridge to his master’s breakfast. 
So this girl was popular from Gill’s standpoint, 


BREAKFAST 


33 

thought John; and the standpoint of an old family 
servant is a very high one. 

“Speaking of pigeons,” said John; “are there 
many this year? ” 

“ A perfect plague, sir.” 

“ Then I’d better shoot some this evening, and 
give the partridges a chance.” He paused a moment 
and added, as if by a happy afterthought, “ I might 
ask up Colonel and Miss Standish.” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the butler, fetching a paper- 
knife from the mantelpiece, and placing it beside 
the unopened letters. 

Gill smiled quietly to himself as he closed the 
door. His one innocent pride lay in the fact that 
he was an old English Catholic, and no convert; 
his one harmless vanity displayed itself in a knowl- 
edge of Latin with the true old English accent; and 
he muttered to himself something which sounded 
like “ Veney, veedey, veesey.” Of a truth, it is 
hopeless to try and keep one’s thoughts hidden from 
an old servant. 

Tracey opened the first letter on the pile, and 
read: 

“ Dear Sir, — I have studied your two articles 
which appeared in The Quarterly Review, with 
great interest. If you contemplate writing a book 


34 


BETTY STANDISH 


on the same subject, we should be pleased to act as 
your publishers. 

“ If I may venture to say so, your standpoint is 
admirable. We have had several books by English- 
men and Americans who embraced the Japanese 
mode of life; a book, written by an Englishman who 
retained his nationality, whilst he sympathised with 
the spirit of the East, should prove invaluable. 

“ In your articles, you refer to the influence of 
Buddhism on the art and character of the race; if 
you could show this influence by the reproduction 
of paintings and engravings, the book would gain 
an additional value. 

“ Yours faithfully,” 

the name of an eminent publisher was appended. 

“ By Jove! ” said John Tracey; and the vision of 
Betty Standish vanished. For woman and ambition 
cannot reign together unless the woman associates 
herself with the ambition — in which case, the two 
units combine to make a Force. 

It was a fascinating idea, this “ Japanese Char- 
acter by an Englishman”; and Tracey knew that 
he had seen Japan as few Europeans have ever seen 
it. As the publisher had pointed out, there are 
many Westerns who have adopted Eastern customs 
—dressed up in Japanese clothes, consumed their 
tea and sake by the thimbleful, smoked pinches of 


BREAKFAST 


35 

scentless tobacco, and slept on wooden pillows; but, 
with the exception of Lafcadio Hearn who married 
into the samurai class, these people have only suc- 
ceeded in denationalising themselves, without win- 
ning the respect of the Japanese. Tracey, on the 
other hand, had gone out with excellent introduc- 
tions, and had mixed with the Japanese upper class, 
whilst he remained an English gentleman. He had 
seen Japan as a guest, friend, and student, and not 
through dressing up and mixing with the lower 
classes. 

Paintings? Engravings? How thankful he was 
that his courteous old Japanese professor had taught 
him to buy as a student, and not as a collector. It 
was a great idea, if only he had the skill to write 
the book. 

He turned over his letters, and selected one that 
was addressed in a very familiar handwriting: 

“ Dear Old Chap,” (he read), “ I forgot to tell 
you the other night that my late C.O. has settled 
close to Tracey. He is a real good sort and, al- 
though he used to be well off, he seems to have lost 
most of his money, so you might give him a day’s 
shooting now and then. 

“ Remember me to Col. Standish, and give my 
best love to little Betty. Tell her that I still have 


BETTY STANDISH 


36 

Punch, though he is getting past polo and I can only 
use him when I umpire. 

“ I hope to get down towards the end of October. 
The coverts won’t be bare enough for shooting 
before. 

“ Yours, 

“ St. J. Postlethwaite.” 

Then Postlethwaite knew this girl ! Of course, 
she must have been the kiddie he used to write 
about. She must have been the child that was 
photographed on Postle’s pony, holding his puppies, 
or sitting on his knee; in fact, his despatch-box must 
contain at least half a dozen photographs of Postle 
with Betty. He wished he had unpacked his 
despatch-box. And so John’s thoughts returned to 
woman, and ambition sank into its proper place in 
the scale of creation. 

His meeting with this girl had been like a scene 
in a theatre. His first vivid impression of the play 
had been received as he stood beside her, and she 
looked up at him. The trout, the dog, the stamping 
of her foot had been the overture: the play had 
really commenced when he waded across the river, 
and she looked up at him; it was comedy, light 
comedy, with an absurd situation in the first scene, 
during which he caught a property trout, and she 


BREAKFAST 


37 

talked like Izaak Walton. What a sympathetic 
little artist he had to act with ! 

He wondered where the next scene would be 
staged. Perhaps on the lawn at Coombe Lodge, 
when he called to be thanked for saving the life of 
that absurd puppy. He must be very careful not 
to allow the situation to carry him away, and land 
him in a serious drama; for he did not pretend to 
himself that he was blind to the attractions of Miss 
Betty Standish. 

Yes! A comedy played between a man of thirty- 
five and a girl of about twenty was all very well; 
but if he was not on his guard, this pretty comedy 
might easily develop into a serious tragedy for John 
Tracey. Then, what with the memory of the sunny 
water-meadows and the scent of the stephanotis 
coming in through the window, his imagination 
drifted on until he could almost picture this girl 
walking into the sunshine on the terrace — and what 
a perfect stage the terrace would make ! 

There was a rustle outside the window and a 
“ thrum,” just as though an energetic lady had 
opened a particularly large fan; one of the Tracey 
peacocks was strutting on the portico, with his tail 
at attention. Tracey laughed at this opening of the 
second scene. 


38 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Morning, Peter! ” said John. “ Enjoying the 
sunshine? ” 

“Squark!” answered Peter; and forthwith the 
bird began to sidle to and fro, keeping the painted 
side of his fan as much as possible towards the 
window. 

“ Want some buttered toast, Peter? ” 

“ Squark! ” answered the peacock; and, when he 
had finished the fragments of toast that John placed 
on the window-sill, Peter sang his grace in a raucous 
voice. 

“Do you wish to see Weymouth, sir?” Gill 
was standing beside him, handing a cup of black 
coffee. It was really extraordinary that the fat old 
butler could move so silently! 

“ I had planned a comedy, Gill,” said John; “ and 
you have turned it into a pantomime — you and Peter, 
between you — the transformation scene of a panto- 
mime. Quem deus perdere vult, prius dementat — 
that’s Latin, Gill”; and he smiled at the old 
servant. 

“ Whomsoever God wills to perish,” began Gill 
solemnly; then he hesitated and looked puzzled. “ I 
don’t seem to remember the text, Master John; it 
doesn’t sound like Scripture! ” 

“It doesn’t, Gill; it only means that I 


BREAKFAST 39 

mustn’t be an idiot. Give me a cigarette. Who’s 
Weymouth? ” 

“ He’s the new keeper, sir, and ” Gill’s face 

assumed a look of deep cunning — “ and, I think 
you’ll find him another transformation scene, Master 
John.” 

“Steady, Gill! Leave me some illusions! 
Don’t change the transformation scene into a harle- 
quinade ! Do you remember taking me to the 
pantomime at Exeter, when I wanted to bring home 
some of the little fairies to play with and you said 
that the Master wouldn’t approve? ” 

“Yes, sir!” answered Gill, smiling reminis- 
cently. 

“ And you told me that the fairies were only dirty 
little girls who danced round barrel-organs when 
they were off duty: that is life. Tell Weymouth to 
meet me at the kennels presently. I haven’t seen 
the dogs yet.” 

“ Heigh-ho ! ” sighed John, as he stepped out 
through the window. “ So crumble our fairy 
castles ! ” 

Outside, down by the river, the sun was licking 
up the last shreds of the mist, robbing the theatre 
of its morning poetry before it started to paint the 
next scene with the flicker of sunlight and shadow. 


40 


BETTY STANDISH 


The day had become as uninteresting as an empty 
theatre; Peter was transformed into a vulgar, strut- 
ting fowl; John had become a squire who had to 
see his keeper, then his steward. 

Thoughts of his cottage on the side of Lake Biwa 
came into his mind — of his garden overhanging the 
lake, from which he could watch the wild-fowl 
silhouette themselves against the sunset, until they 
vanished into the shadow of the hills opposite. 
When he had first bought the cottage, he had taken 
the Japanese sage’s advice and planted “ fruit trees 
in large numbers, especially the orange and the lime,” 
and now they would be in full bearing. “ When 
the fruit has formed and ripened,” argues the sage, 
“ it is not less beautiful than the flowers.” Again, 
the maples beside the little summer-house would be 
red with autumn colouring; below them, beside the 
small waterfall which churned down towards the 
lake, there were willows, cherry trees, and firs: he 
had not planted the trees too thickly because such 
an error “makes much moisture, and in summer 
harbours mosquitoes, which are a plague.” His eye 
rested on a wisp of mist, which is the image of wan- 
dering thoughts, and forms the “ cushion-word ” (or 
foundation) of a Japanese poem: 


BREAKFAST 


4i 


“Pale grey morning-mist 
Clouds all my exiled dreaming — 

Would I could see thee, 

Maple, beside my roof-tree 
Clothed in thy red kimono.” 

How he wished he were back in Japan, where life 
and scenery were a real drama, and no morning 
illusion. Then a small piece of cambric dropped 
out of his sleeve and fell at his feet. 

Tracey picked up the handkerchief in an instant; 
he held it in his hand for some forty seconds; he 
crumpled it into his waistcoat pocket, and went 
indoors with all his morning vapours gone. 

“ Tell some one to tell the keeper that I’ll see 
him after lunch,” said Tracey to a passing house- 
maid. 

He put on his panama, caught up a stick and went 
out quickly. 


CHAPTER V 

CONCERNING LOVE AND A LACE HANDKERCHIEF 

Sir Oliver Lodge seems to have proved that all 
matter — man, woman, or lump of coal — is formed 
of minute particles of electricity whirling round at 
an incredible rate of speed. Orientals seem to con- 
sider that man is positive and woman negative. 
I. Therefore, putting two and two together, and 
after the usual practice making six, we may con- 
clude that love is some form of electricity, and that 
masculine love is amo-positive and feminine love 
amo-negative. Since we are ingenious persons, we 
may appropriate the ordinary sex-marks mas- 
culine, and ? feminine) to suit our purpose, and 
we get $ as the sign of the masculine amo-positive 
affection, and $ as the sign of the feminine amo- 
negative affection. 

As everyone knows — or pretends to know — there 
are two kinds of electricity, positive and negative,* 
and these two kinds are eternally striving to balance 

*Lest it should appear to the student of amo-electrobiology 
that I am confusing static and magnetic electricity. I must 
point out that the lines of force in each type are not dissimilar ; 
besides, amo-electricity is neither magnetic nor static, but 
ecstatic. — A. J. A. 


42 


CONCERNING LOVE, ETC. 43 

and satisfy each other. The clouds are charged 
with positive electricity, the earth with negative elec- 
tricity; both sky and earth are unhappy, and inci- 
dentally give us headaches. There is a crash ! the 
positive current rushes from sky to earth, the nega- 
tive from earth to sky: we see a flash of lightning, 
and both clouds and earth are for the moment satis- 
fied. But the clouds and earth are perpetually 
creating and discharging a fresh supply. 

It is exactly the same with male and female. The 
man is perpetually creating and the woman is 
perpetually creating $. These forces — $ and $ — - 
are perpetually craving to balance and satisfy each 
other, not of necessity by the actual contact of a 
kiss or hand-touch, but through the light-waves of 
a glance, the sound-waves of a word, or the mere 
presence of two lovers in the same room. 

But notice this: every man has and every 
woman has $, but any man does not fall in love 
with any woman. The reason of this is simple, and 
yet difficult to explain. If one presses down the 
loud pedal of a piano and sings A natural, A natural 
will sound whilst the other strings remain dumb: 
the receiver in a Marconi station is tuned to one 
wave-current, and ignores all other electric waves — 
at least in theory. So in each man, the $ is tuned 


44 


BETTY STANDISH 


to a certain pitch, and it is only when it finds a $ 
tuned to a similar pitch that it yearns to balance and 
satisfy: in ordinary language, it is only then that 
the man and woman fall in love. 

And notice this: marriage may be the crown of 
true love, but true love will stand the strain of a 
lifelong engagement, and engaged persons who truly 
love each other may be trusted together to any 
extent. Once give $ and $ that are in tune, and 
although the electricity grows more feeble as the 
couple grow older, the currents remain in tune, and 
love is constant. Passion quickly tires, love never 
tires and never becomes satiated. 

The Giorgione Venus at Dresden, the Botticelli 
Venus at Berlin, and the Velasquez Venus in the 
National Gallery are perfect types of beauty, and 
there are living women who are quite as beautiful, 
and yet men do not fall in love with this beauty 
wholesale; but, each man who is fortunate enough 
to find his perfect amo-negative (even though the 
world may judge her to be inferior to the aforesaid 
types of beauty) prefers her to all others, and the 
pair are absolutely in love with each other until 
they die. 

There are probably hundreds of thousands of 
different electro-amative wave-lengths, and perfect 


45 


CONCERNING LOVE, ETC. 

harmony must be rare; but even a marriage of con- 
venience may produce sufficient harmony to make 
married life fairly happy. When and $ are in 
perfect harmony, and each is the exact complement 
of the other, the response is immediate and we have 
love-at-first-sight. 

We may have added our two and two together 
and made, not six, but a full dozen; and yet, since we 
have been clever enough to account for love (which 
is a triumph) and to account for love-at-first-sight 
(which is an achievement), we may be forgiven. 

II. Take a second argument. A girl of twenty 
has her natural disposition written on her features 
— sweet mouth and saucy nose for Miss Sunshine, 
turned-down mouth and long nose for Miss Dol- 
drums. She has spent twenty years in smiling and 
sulking, and so on, therefore she has spent twenty 
years in developing her facial muscles into an habit- 
ual expression. Both natural disposition and formed 
character are stamped on her face. 

If a grown man cannot judge a girl’s disposition 
and character at first sight, he had best ask his aunt 
to choose a wife for him. In short, it is the strong 
man who falls in love with the right girl straight 
away; whilst it is the cautious idiot who hesitates, 
yields to flattery, is beguiled and marries a minx. 


4 6 BETTY STANDISH 

III. In passing, it is interesting to notice that 
lace handkerchiefs, and such gear, are formed of 

matter,” and that all matter is composed of re- 
volving electrons; and, although inanimate matter 
cannot become the source of amative energy, it 
may become a sort of storage battery (just like the 
accumulator that stores the electricity in your 
motor) and store up the $. If (as some Japanese be- 
lieve) a doll which has been loved by many genera- 
tions of children may store up love; if (as an Emi- 
nent English Scientist has declared) this ismot incom- 
patible with the theories of modern science; then, 
surely, a lace handkerchief may become stored with 
sufficient $ to make a man with the correspond- 
ing $ value it above all his other earthly possessions. 

IV. Finally, if you, my dear sir, have lived in 
the world for five-and-thirty years, and still do not 
believe in love-at-first-sight, you are what Mr. 
Roscoe would have called a “damned sugar 
plum,” and I have nothing more to say to you ! 

John Tracey knew nothing of all this. He was 
a man who learnt from actual experience, picking 
up his knowledge first hand; and, since he had never 
been seriously in love, he was ignorant of love. He 
wanted to see this girl again, and therefore he deter- 


CONCERNING LOVE, ETC. 47 

mined to pay a morning call; he wanted to keep her 
handkerchief, and he meant to do so. 

So, taking his stick and panama, he crossed the 
park, passed over the Otter by the foot-bridge which 
is just above the Grammar School bathing-place in 
the mill-dam, and followed the footpath to Coombe 
Ottery. All this was simple, and it was equally easy 
to buy a handkerchief of old Honiton lace at the 
Misses Crewys’ shop in the High Street and to take 
the road towards Coombe Lodge; but as he neared 
Coombe Lodge, Tracey began to slacken his pace, 
for he found himself in an unexpected difficulty. 

It was very well to say that he had found Miss 
Standish’s handkerchief in his pocket and that, as 
he had managed to tear the lace border, he had 
ventured to bring her a new one; but how could 
he ask her to accept such an evidently valuable piece 
of old Honiton, and how could he account for its 
purchase? He stood still and pondered. Then his 
face cleared, and he went back to Tracey. 

Later on in the day, the housekeeper found that 
the door of the large bedroom was open, and that 
the wardrobe of the late Mrs. Tracey was in some 
confusion. From this external evidence she deduced 
that none of the housemaids had been prying, and 
wondered what Mr. Tracey could have been seeking. 


CHAPTER VI 


A MORNING CALL 

As John Tracey turned into the shade of Coombe 
Lodge drive, Betty came round the corner of the 
house; and when he saw her, he knew that he loved 
her. 

For it was just as though he felt a great longing, 
and his inner self— that is to say the real part of 
him— seemed to go out and meet her. He did not 
formulate any thoughts, but in an instant he realised 
that she was everything to him, and that she would 
always be everything to him. Her face did not 
matter, her figure did not matter, nothing mattered; 
he did not even notice that the sun was making 
her hair shimmer: she was Betty, and that was 
enough. 

Now very great love always means a reciprocity. 
The girl may presently grow to love the man 
because he first loved her; but he would never have 
first loved her, if she had not the capacity and in- 
clination to love him back: it is only in legends that 
hearts are lost to statues or ice maidens. So, since 

48 


A MORNING CALL 


49 

there was a reciprocity, John felt a great calm and 
a great self-assurance. 

“ Good-morning, Miss Standish,” said he, raising 
his hat and speaking as though she were only an 
ordinary girl, instead of Betty. “ How’s the in- 
valid? ” 

“ He’s doing nicely, Mr. Tracey,” said she, feel- 
ing absurdly happy, although she did not know why. 
“ He’s been helping me to weed; he’s been garden- 
ing on his own account; and now I fancy he’s gone 
off to chase the chickens. He’s a most trouble- 
some puppy!” Then she raised her voice and 
called : “ Peter ! ” 

The summer had tanned the girl’s face, just as 
it tans the complexions of fair Italians, until her 
hair and cheeks seemed to have been wrought out 
of different shades of the same colour; then, lest 
there should be monotony, the southern blood had 
tinged her cheeks and painted her lips redder than 
those of ordinary Englishwomen. Though John 
did not love her" because of her beauty (he would 
not have loved her a scrap less if she had been then 
and there permanently disfigured) he was beginning 
to feel that her looks became her like pearls round 
the neck of a pretty woman, or daisies amongst 
meadow-grass. He inquired if Peter were really 


50 


BETTY STANDISH 


troublesome, not because the topic interested him, 
but because it was the natural question to ask. 

“Troublesome?” she retorted. “Look at my 
hair! And I consider that you’re responsible: he’s 
one of the Tracey dogs, you know.” 

“Yes!” he answered, inspecting her critically. 
“ Your hair is looking rather faded, but I shouldn’t 
worry if I were you; try peroxide; you’ll get the 
golden tint back in no time. Of course, if you 
really think that I’m responsible, I’ll order the stuff 
for you — it’s the least I can do. What’s the matter 
with Peter?” 

She knew that she had unintentionally laid herself 
open to a compliment and was grateful to him for 
not taking advantage. “ It isn’t that Peter’s exactly 
disobedient,” she explained. “ He’s awfully fond of 
me, and all that; but he treats me like a younger 
sister. He patronises me.” 

“ I see,” laughed Tracey. 

“ Now, this morning,” continued she, “ I was 
weeding, and Peter came to help me. He grubbed 
up one daisy; then he wrinkled his nose and looked 
up at me and said, as plainly as a dog can speak: 
‘ I’ll show you how it ought to be done ’; and before 
I could stop him, he had dug up half a dozen 
geraniums.” 


A MORNING CALL 


5 1 


And then ? ” inquired John. It was a 

strange experience to have to join in a frivolous 
conversation about an absurd dog, whilst his heart 
was saying the most serious things it could say; and 
yet he was enjoying himself, and answering more or 
less naturally. 

“ Of course I scolded him,” went on Betty. “ I 
threw a regular parade rasp into my voice and 
scolded him awfully; but he only grinned, and 
turned up his nose ’’—she tilted hers to an angle 
of some sixty degrees — “and said: ‘That’s right, 
little Betty ! Go on with your weeding, it’s girl’s 
work; I must attend to the poultry.’ At any rate, 
he trotted off towards the fowls’-house. You’re not 
believing me, Mr. Tracey! ” 

“ He actually had the impudence to call you 
‘Betty’?” 

“ He always does,” said she sadly. “ You see, 
he thinks he’s a Tracey of Tracey, and I’m only 
the girl at Coombe Lodge. It’s his way of keeping 
me in my place. But you’re not believing me, Mr. 
Tracey! ” 

“ I should believe anything you told me,” he 
answered truthfully. Some truths may be told with 
safety; they sound so like polite exaggerations. 

“Then I’ll show you how I’m treated!” She 


5 2 BETTY STAN DISH 

raised her voice and called : “ Peter ! Peter ! You bad 
dog! Come here at once!” No Peter appeared. 

“Now watch!” Her voice softened, and she 
called: “Peter! Peter! Come here, dear! I’m 
sorry I spoke so roughly. I want you to help me.” 
And almost before she had done calling, Peter 
hurried out of the laurels and flung himself on his 
mistress, mud and all. 

“ Well! I’m — Pm blessed! ” exclaimed John, as 
the small dog turned to him, and gravely held up 
one paw. 

“ Isn’t it exactly what I told you? ” cried the girl. 
“ He despises me, just as much as he respects you ! 
I’m his social inferior! Couldn’t you use your influ- 
ence, Mr. Tracey? Make him behave himself! 
Please do ! ” Her voice was almost pathetic. 

“ Little dogs must do what they’re told,” said John, 
stooping over the spaniel. “ Miss Standish is your 
mistress, and you must obey her, Peter. She is a lady, 
and you must look after her and take care of her.” 

“Steady!” protested Betty, anxiously, “or he 
won’t let me call my soul my own.” 

“ Always remembering to be humble and 
obedient,” added the man. The little spaniel looked 
so wise and intelligent, that Betty took heart. 

“ Thank you ever so much, Mr. Tracey,” she 


53 


A MORNING CALL 

said hopefully. “ I’m sure he’ll obey me now.” 
Then she turned to the dog and began gently: “ Go 
to bed, Peter!” Her tone grew firmer: “Go to 
bed, sir ! Go to bed, you disgraceful puppy ! Oh ! 
Mr. Tracey, do make him behave! ” 

“ Go to bed! ” ordered John, without raising his 
voice; and Peter went. 

Their eyes met, and Betty laughed softly. “ Isn’t 
it absurd,” she said; “ you know, when I talk about 
Peter like that, I really half believe it. He’s an 
uncanny puppy.” 

“What would life be without pretend? Now 

I ” and it dawned on Tracey that this was an 

ideal opening to introduce the object of his visit; so 
he suggested that the sun was very hot, that he had 
walked to Coomb'e Ottery and back since breakfast, 
and that the seat under the shade of the horse- 
chestnut beside the house looked inviting.” 

“ I have a confession to make,” said Tracey, seat- 
ing himself and taking off his panama. 

“ How exciting! ” she answered, leaning back and 
clasping her hands behind her neck. One sunbeam 
slipped through the chestnut leaves and flicked gold- 
dust out of her hair; another crept through and 
kissed her arm where the loose sleeve had fallen 
back; altogether she looked bewitchingly saucy. 


54 


BETTY STANDISH 


‘‘An Oriental Mystery: The Confession of a Re- 
turned Heir. Please go on, Mr. Tracey.’’ 

“ You remember lending me your handkerchief, 
this morning, Miss Standish? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Betty, wondering what was 
coming. 

“ I stole it.” 

The girl felt a wretched thrill of disappointment. 
She had found John so companionable and so 
trustable, and she liked him so much; and now he 
was going to spoil it all by trying to flirt. Although 
she was too sensible to attach much importance to 
his kissing her hand by the river, she had not for- 
gotten the incident; and, as an engaged girl, she 
had no intention of being led into a flirtation. She 
did not change her position or move her hands from 
behind her neck, but John saw a certain tenseness 
come into her pose, and guessed something of what 
was passing in her mind. 

“ You see, I had to steal it,” he continued. “ If 
I had asked you to give it me, it would have sounded 
like asking for a keepsake or something foolish.” 

“Yes,” she gasped; for he had answered her 
thoughts exactly. 

“ So I had to steal it.” 

“But why?” The woman within her wanted 


A MORNING CALL 


55 


to solve the problem: to steal a handkerchief as a 
keepsake might be comprehensible; but to tell a 
girl that her handkerchief was not stolen as a keep- 
sake sounded incomprehensible. 

But why? Earlier, when he had started for 
Coombe Lodge, the question would have been easy 
to answer; he had taken the thing just as he had 
taken a pebble from the temple court at Kitzuki, 
as a memento. But now that he realised his true 
motive, the question was unanswerable, and he must 
sacrifice the truth to spare Betty’s feelings. 

“ You see,” he said, “ things mean a lot to me, 
and I’ve had a bad time since I landed.” 

Although he was not making the matter any more 
comprehensible, she nodded her head in encourage- 
ment. 

“ It is not easy to explain, and I want to make it 
clear. May I smoke, Miss Standish?” 

She smiled her assent. 

“ I expect you’ve some odds and ends that you’ve 
picked up at different places,” he said, lighting his 
cigarette; “ and you turn them over now and then, 
and think of the different places where you got 
them? ” 

“ I have,” she answered. 

“ Well, Orientals think a lot more of inanimate 


56 BETTY STANDISH 

things than we do, and most people who’ve been 
much in the East catch the habit, so I got into the 
way of keeping some memento of each place where 
I’d been particularly happy: I’ve a sprig of maple 
from my old garden, and a pebble from a temple 
courtyard, and a lot more odds and ends, locked 
away in my despatch-box. When I’m a bit de- 
pressed, I take out these things; it’s like reading an 
old diary. Do you understand? ” 

“ Quite,” said Betty. 

So far he had been telling the truth ; now he had 
to draw on his imagination; so he looked at her 
face, and went on : “ I’d been awfully bored in town. 
Everyone I knew was away, and I came down to 
Tracey with a bad attack of the blues. Then I went 
out fishing this morning, and had quite the jolliest 
time of my life. First I caught the biggest trout in 
the Otter; then I hooked a spaniel; then I met an 
amusing lady who talked like Izaak Walton; alto- 
gether it was a ripping morning, and I wanted some- 
thing to remember it by— a sort of leaf for my 
diary.” 

‘ I see,” said Betty. “ You wanted this hand- 
kerchief as a record of the trout, the spaniel, and the 
amusing lady. By the way, Mr. Tracey, was the 
first remark of the amusing lady written down? ” 


A MORNING CALL 


57 


“Certainly!” answered John, readily. “She 
said: ‘O honourable sir, honourably deign to cease 
from drowning my unworthy dog.’ ” 

The girl gave a happy little laugh, and looked 
even more saucy than she did before. She was 
again feeling safe with John, and she must needs 
take advantage. “ Have you,” she asked, tilting her 
chin, “ many lace handkerchiefs in your collection, 
Mr. Tracey? ” 

He was a trifle over-confident after getting out 
of his first difficulty, and a trifle over-anxious to 
clear himself from the implied accusation. “ As 
a matter of fact,” he said, “ it’s the only thing a 
woman’s touched that I ever wanted to keep.” 
Then he caught himself up: “It was only an acci- 
dent that it happened to be a handkerchief, 
and it’s a double accident that it happened to be 
yours.” 

“ Of course! ” said she, sweetly. 

“ I couldn’t take that trout — I mean the second 
one — the Izaak Walton one — because I’d given it 
to you; besides, fancy keeping a trout in one’s 
despatch-box! I couldn’t have taken rushes or 
flowers, because they hadn’t anything to do with 
the story. It was a case of your handkerchief or 
nothing.” 


58 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Let us review the situation, Mr. Tracey.” 
Whether she believed him or not, she was enjoying 
his ingenuity; and he certainly was not attempting 
to flirt. “ You found a silly girl with a page of your 
private journal; she was so ignorant that she could 
not read it; in fact,” (her voice sank to a whisper) 
“ she was using it to wipe her nose. I think you 
were right to rescue it.” 

“No! Miss Standish. I was not right; nothing 
can justify a theft; one mustn’t do wrong that right 
may come! ” He flung down his cigarette-end with 
determination. 

“ Now, I do not propose to continue in this theft.” 
(She wondered what was coming.) “I do not 
consider that I have known you sufficiently long to 
justify my asking for the handkerchief.” (She felt 
relieved.) “ Least of all do I propose to return it.” 
(What on earth was this extraordinary man, who 
collected scraps of Japanese temples and a girl’s 
handkerchief as pages of his object journal, going 
to suggest?) 

“ What I am going to propose is that we return 
to the primitive system of barter: an eye for an eye, 
a tooth for a tooth, a lace handkerchief for a lace 
handkerchief.” He produced the envelope, and 
handed the handkerchief to Betty. 


A MORNING CALL 


59 

“But I couldn’t!” cried the girl. “It’s too 
beautiful! It’s too valuable ! ” 

“ It belonged to my mother,” said John, gently. 

O wise John Tracey! Could any girl put aside 
such a delicate compliment? It belonged to a 
woman, therefore he could not use it; it belonged 
to his mother, therefore he could not sell it; it 
belonged to the woman he respected most, therefore 
it was an offering of intense respect. If the object 
had been a diamond tiara, Betty could hardly have 
refused it. 

She unfolded the handkerchief, and the lavender 
blossom fell out. 

“ Yours smelt of lavender,” he explained. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tracey,” she said, looking 
down; “ I shall value it ”; but whether this referred 
to the handkerchief, or the handkerchief scented 
with lavender, is uncertain. 

The man felt a strong sense of dissatisfaction; 
perhaps it was this real ending to an artificial con- 
versation that caused it. All the absurd talk about 
the puppy had been real enough because it had been 
natural; but this posing about the handkerchief and 
the object diary had been insincere. He had planned 
a comedy, and his conversation had become a 
comedy. Besides, what he had said had not been 


6o 


BETTY STANDISH 


truthful, and although he had no foolish scruples 
about the necessity of telling the whole truth, irre- 
spective of the pain it might cause others, he could 
not stand prevarication to Betty; 

“ Look here, Miss Standish,” he blurted out. “ It 
was all rot about my wanting your handkerchief for 
a page of my journal. I began like a silly idiot about 
stealing your handkerchief, and it sounded as if I 
was trying to take a liberty, and I tried to shuffle 
out of it. I took the thing because I liked you, and 
I’m awfully sorry.” 

He had risen and was standing before her, and she 
was looking down. If he had remained seated, he 
might have seen that she was not very angry. 

“I think you called to see my father?” sug- 
gested Betty; “ and it’s nearly lunch time.” She 
held out both her hands so he might help her up, 
which was surely a sign of forgiveness. 

Then, just as they reached the house, she felt 
that she might have said something when he owned 
up — and she felt that she did not want to hurt him 
— so she looked up and said: “ I think we shall be 
friends, Mr. Tracey.” 

John Tracey’s love-making had gone much fur- 
ther than he knew, and this because it had been 
entirely spontaneous; and you will find that when 


A MORNING CALL 6 1 

a man is deeply in love with the right girl, his 
courtship runs very smoothly and very swiftly, 
partly because the man is thinking about the girl’s 
feelings and not his own, and partly because the 
girl knows that she can trust the man. No woman 
resents a man’s admiration; what she does resent — 
and she resents it above all things — is the feeling 
that she is being held cheaply; what she hates — 
and she hates it abominably — is the taking of any 
liberty which assumes that her consent is a fore- 
gone conclusion. John’s secret theft of the hand- 
kerchief had been a sin; John’s prevarication to ac- 
count for the theft had been a sin; but, when one 
sin implies admiration and the other sin implies re- 
spect, two sins can make one solid virtue. John’s last 
confession — just as if she had not seen through him 
all the time! — made her think very sweetly of him. 

It was true that Betty was engaged; but her 
engagement was what might be called an engage- 
ment of propinquity. She had known the boy to 
whom she was engaged all her life; she was 
genuinely fond of him, and he of her; they had 
shared their sweets; she had kept watch whilst he 
smoked cigarettes; he had taken her otter-hunting; 
she had bucked him up when he was working for 
Sandhurst; he had brought her partners at her first 


62 BETTY STANDISH 

dance. She liked the boy immensely; he combined 
his liking with much admiration and that sexual 
fondness which any boy feels towards any very 
pretty girl who does not happen to be his sister. 
So when he had asked her to marry him, she, after 
some hesitation and with an entire lack of worldly 
wisdom, had said “Yes!” But, since they were 
not in a position to marry and they expected oppo- 
sition from Colonel Standish, they had decided to 
keep their engagement secret. Their love-making 
had not been sufficiently vigorous to rob Betty of 
any of her freshness; and the engagement had 
certainly preserved the boy from feminine snares. 
However, it must be noted that the boy’s affection 
was not strong enough to prevent him from extrava- 
gance, and he had not reached the stage where 
he would deny himself so as to save up for his 
marriage. 

Strange to say, the very fact of Betty’s engage- 
ment made her intimacy with Tracey the more easy; 
because, if the other man’s actions and her emo- 
tions towards him were love, then John’s behaviour 
and her answering feelings were friendship. This 
sounds incomprehensible, but one finds an elementary 
simplicity in many young girls, combined with much 
intuition and natural wisdom. 


CHAPTER VII 


IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 

John Tracey had finished his sketchy lunch and, 
as he had several hours to kill before the Standishes 
came up to shoot pigeons, he was sitting under the 
portico with a cup of coffee beside him and a ciga- 
rette between his fingers. The morning had moved 
fast, and he wanted to think things over. 

The incidents of the morning were past. He had 
bungled the affair of the handkerchief from start 
to finish; but he had acted for the best, and he gath- 
ered that he had not left a bad impression on Betty’s 
mind. He was not the sort of man to waste his 
time in vain regrets, nor was he the man to spend 
himself on day-dreams. Before he had realised that 
he was in love, he had yielded to pleasant fancies; but 
now that he knew he was in love, he woke to action. 

He was in love, and he was in love without any 
mental reservations. The fifteen years which sep- 
arated him from Betty were not worth the shrug 
of his shoulders; the Tracey luck had become as 
nebulous as Mrs. Eddy’s Christian Science. He did 
63 


BETTY STANDISH 


6 4 

not wonder if he and Betty would get on well to- 
gether or if he wpuld make her happy. He just 
loved her, and meant to win her. 

If he had weighed the pros and cons, he would 
probably have come to the conclusion that he was 
well off and could offer Betty a good position in the 
County, that he had led a clean life, and that he 
was good tempered. He might also have concluded 
that he could offer the girl a very honest devotion, 
which certainly counts for something; but he did not 
give a thought to these matters — what he had to 
decide was his course of action. 

In the first place (he was strangely feudal and 
old-fashioned in some of his ideas) he would ask 
Colonel Standish for leave to pay his addresses. In 
the second place, he would see as much of the girl 
as possible, so that she might learn to know him. 
In the third place — since he intended to be much 
with Betty, and Coombe Ottery is no less given to 
scandal than other country towns — he must face the 
possibility of a refusal. He did not intend that Betty 
should refuse him, and he saw no sense in meeting 
troubles halfway, but if the worst happened, he 
would leave Tracey. If he went abroad suddenly, 
gossip must jump at the right conclusion; and the 
men would be so busy laughing at John Tracey, 


IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 65 

aged thirty-five, who had made a fool of himself 
over a girl of twenty, and the women would be 
so grateful to Betty for refusing one of the few 
eligible bachelors, that gossip would leave her un- 
touched. 

Then he began to make plans for seeing a great 
deal of Betty, and, although he had only thought 
of starting with the Colonel’s consent because it 
seemed the straight thing to do, this made his plans 
possible. There were some days of the trouting 
season left, and he might offer to teach her to cast 
a fly. He might offer to give Peter some lessons 
in obedience, and Peter’s mistress would naturally 
accompany them on their expeditions; and, by 
Jove! he might take the girl out riding. He 
wondered if there was anything in the stables that 
would carry a lady. He would go and see. That 
reminded him — there were the spaniels to visit and 
the keeper to interview — and he had forgotten to 
arrange about the pigeon-shooting for the afternoon. 

Tracey strolled through the coach-house yard, and 
through a side door into the stables. No ! The 
horses were either carriage horses or weight car- 
riers, there was nothing that would serve as a lady’s 
hack. He stood still, took out his cigarette-case, 
and looked lazily through the stable door. 


66 


BETTY STANDISH 


There was a stable-boy in the yard, grooming a 
pony which had just been driven into Coombe Ottery 
for some parcels. As John watched, the pony flicked 
its tail into the boy’s eye; whereupon the boy, not 
seeing his master, kicked the poor beast twice in 
rather a brutal manner. John called the boy — he 
had turned as white as a sheet when he heard John’s 
voice — and told him to go at once to the coachman, 
and report that he had been dismissed without a 
character. It did not matter that the stable-boy 
turned out to be the coachman’s son, and that the 
coachman had been in his place for seventeen 
years; the boy had been given a certain trust, 
the care of the pony, and he had failed in his 
trust. 

John went through the stable-yard, through the 
long, low, sweet-smelling cowhouse adjoining, and 
passed into the kennels. Bedlam was let loose, and 
a crowd of small red spaniels precipitated them- 
selves against the bars, and a smart-looking keeper 
stepped forward to meet him. He looked keenly at 
the man, then held out his hand. 

“ By Jove! ” said John, “ I am pleased! ” 

The keeper mumbled a mixture of thanks and wel- 
come, but his face said what his tongue refused to 
say. Long ago, Weymouth had been the most 


IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 67 

unsatisfactory boy on the estate. He had been 
bright, smart, and well spoken, but he had shown 
a strong dislike of honest work, and a strong 
inclination towards poaching. John had managed 
to catch him with his pockets full of pheasants’ 
eggs, and had first thrashed him and then taken 
him on as gun-boy. This was before Tracey had 
developed something of the family character, and 
when he himself was smarting under the Tracey 
discipline. 

Gill told me that I should find Weymouth a sur- 
prise,” said John, smiling. He understood now why 
the new keeper had mounted the right flies on his 
cast, and why everything had been exactly as it 
should be. 

“ It’s all owing to you, sir,” muttered Wey- 
mouth, awkwardly. “ I’m glad you’ve come, sir. 
The dogs have been uncommonly restless ever since 
you came back.” 

Nonsense! ” said John. “ I don’t believe there 
are two dogs that remember me.” 

“Old Pluto and Plato are living, sir; and old 
Peggy, though she’s getting a bit mellow. But the 
whole kennel knows there’s a Tracey about, sure 
enough.” 

He visited each kennel in turn. Pluto and Plato 


68 


BETTY STANDISH 


clearly remembered him, and even the “ mellow ” 
Peggy wagged her tail vigorously; but the conduct 
of the younger dogs was distinctly uncanny; for all 
seemed as though they knew their master, all fawned 
about his feet, and each held up a right paw as he 
stooped to pat it. 

“The Tracey breed, sure enough!” remarked 
Weymouth — though whether he referred to the dogs 
or their master is uncertain. 

The prospect of pigeon-shooting promised well, 
for the keeper, knowing that the barley was not all 
cut, and that the partridges were somewhat back- 
ward, had made preparations against his master’s 
home-coming. 

Wood pigeons are clever birds, and if they are 
shot for a couple of evenings in one plantation, they 
come to roost in another. For the past fortnight 
Weymouth had been shooting the homing pigeons 
in the woods at the top of the hill, consequently 
towards evening the lower woods, right up to the 
house, were simply crowded with pigeons. An hour 
before sundown, the first birds would appear from 
nowhere, top the tall elms in the park, and swoop 
down into the firs and larches; and the homing 
would continue for a full hour, giving some of the 
finest and most difficult shooting imaginable. A 


IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 69 

pigeon that swoops down into its roost comes like a 
falling arrow, and a falling shot is infinitely more 
difficult than one at a rising bird. 

“ Heigh-ho!” From three o’clock until five 
seemed like a foretaste of eternity! 


CHAPTER VIII 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 

But at four-thirty the Standishes strolled up the 
Tracey drive. That is to say, the Colonel tried to 
disguise his rheumatism under a leisurely saunter, 
whilst Betty kept pace. 

The explanation was simple: Colonel Standish had 
received an important letter, which must be an- 
swered by the five-thirty post; and, as he could not 
send Betty over to tea by herself, he would ask 
Tracey to amuse his daughter and allow him to write 
his letter in the library. Yes! he would like a 
whisky-and-soaa, many thanks; awfully bad for him 
all the same. He’d join them as soon as he had 
finished the letter. So John carried off the girl with 
much inward rejoicing, and asked her what she 
would like to do. 

“ It’s too hot to do anything,” she said. “ Let’s 
sit on the rosery bank and talk.” They went down 
the long flight of marble steps that led to the rosery 
with its formal beds of standard roses, its fountain 


70 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 71 

and its gold-fish. It was a peaceful spot, shut away 
from the world, and warm and sweet-scented. 

“ Now you’ve got to amuse me, Mr. Tracey,” 
said the girl, throwing herself on the slope. “ Re- 
member I’m your guest.” 

What shall I talk about?” asked John, seating 
himself by sections and hitching up his trousers. 

“ Tell me about the Japanese women.” 

He cast about in his mind as to what he should 
tell, and how he should tell it. Did she want to 
hear about the way they did their hair? If so, he 
had a delightful book by Lafcadio Hearn which he 
would fetch. She made a little face with a fascinat- 
ing wrinkling of her nose. 

Did she want to hear the story of O-Kama-San, 
who killed herself in the Tokoji cemetery because 
her lover failed to hurry back from Europe to vol- 
unteer against the Russians? She shook her head, 
for the subject did not greatly interest her. 

Did she want to hear about the samurai girl, 
who tested her lover’s bravery by taking him to a 
grave at midnight and bidding him eat a bit of a 
dead baby, which really proved to have been made 
of confectionery? 

“ I want to hear about Japanese woman,” said 
Betty, “ not Japanese women ! ” 


72 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Woman in the abstract? ” 

“Please talk as if I were a man!” she asked 
wistfully. “ You see, Mr. Tracey, I used to be great 
friends with Captain Postlethwaite, and I am great 
friends with my father, and they talk to me as if 
I were one of themselves.” 

“ I wish you’d explain,” said John. 

“ It’s like this,” said she, picking a daisy and 
stroking its petals against her mouth: “ Women talk 

about everything as it affects them personally ” 

She thought a moment, catching the daisy petals 
between her lips. u Men talk about everything as 
if they were sitting on the top of the Alps and dis- 
cussing America. Isn’t that awfully clever, Mr. 
Tracey? ” She looked at him and laughed gleefully, 
for had not her last sentence been “ feminine,” and 
introduced the personal element? 

In a general way the girl was right, but her youth 
had made her forget the inevitable exceptions. It 
may be true that most women are incapable of the 
abstract — just try to talk to an authoress about 
abstract literary work, and see how long it is before 
you are talking about her work in the concrete! — 
but some women are capable of the abstract (Betty 
herself was an example) and then they add the inter- 
esting quality of a man to the delightful quality of 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 73 

a woman. A woman with a man’s mind is a sexless 
creature; but a woman who combines a man’s intel- 
lect with a woman’s nimbleness and a woman’s sym- 
pathy is charming beyond description. 

“ Then, you don’t want to hear about the tea- 
house girl?— she’s just a dainty little A.B.C. 
waitress.” 

“ No ! ” said Betty. 

“ Or the geisha ?— she’s a sort of paid guest.” 

“ No ! ” said Betty. 

“ Then you want to hear about the samurai 
woman ! ” 

I m afraid I’m awfully ignorant,” said she, 

but I always thought the samurai was a sort of 
officer. I want to hear about the Japanese lady- 
in the abstract,” she added, smiling. 

How can you formulate a lady in the ab- 
stract? said he, smiling back. “You must start 
her in the concrete, and abstract her afterwards.” 

“But what is a ‘samurai woman’?” inquired 
Betty, seriously. 

“We used to have a samurai class in England,” 
he answered. “ A business man or attorney did 
not belong to the samurai class, but the army, navy, 
church, and bar did. A duke might marry a samurai 
girl, and the duke’s youngest daughter might marry 


74 


BETTY STANDISH 


the rector — I am speaking of the time when 4 gen- 
tleman ’ meant 4 of gentle birth,’ and the 4 upper- 
middle-class ’ hadn’t been invented.” 

44 I see what you mean,” said she. 

44 In Japan, there was no navy, the priests were 
unmarried, and the law was administered by the 
Shogun or a daimyo : therefore the samurai was a 
soldier. He wasn’t a samurai because he was a 
soldier, but because soldiering was the only pro- 
fession open to the samurai. He was the same as 
our old idea of a gentleman, and a samurai woman 
was one who had inherited the instincts and tradi- 
tions of the samurai class. You are a samurai girl; 
but, although Miss Soap-boiler may have been as 
well educated and as highly cultivated, she could 
never belong to the samurai class: her traditions and 
instincts would be different.” 

44 It’s rather nice to feel that one’s a samurai 
girl,” said Betty; 44 and you’re making me awfully 
interested in the Japanese lady, Mr. Tracey.” 

44 The samurai lady’s very shy and modest and 
humble; but I always think that this is due to cen- 
turies of training, and not to her natural disposi- 
tion. Long ago, before the Shoguns came into 
power, the court ladies seem to have been as witty 
and human as any Englishwoman. For example, 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 75 

one of the court ladies who lived about nine hundred 
years ago has left a book describing what she saw 
and thought, and it’s as modern as ‘ The Letters of 
Elizabeth.’ ” 

“ Tell me something about it, Mr. Tracey.” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t remember much,” owned 
John; “ but she gave a list of ‘ the things that give 
one a thrill,’ and included: ‘A good-looking man 
who stops his carriage to ask you the way.’ How 
does that strike you, Miss Standish? ” 

“ Oh ! Delightful ! ” laughed Betty. 

“ And she includes amongst her ‘ detestable 
things,’ ‘ People who interrupt your best stories in 
order to show off their own cleverness,’ and ‘ A man 
to sing the praises of some woman he has known, 
whilst he professes an admiration for you.’ ” 

“ How awfully true ! ” 

“ Court life seems to have been very smart, with 
plenty of love-making. They had poetry teas, just 
as we have book teas now, and everyone had to make 
up smart little poems on the spur of the moment. 
But everything changed when the Shoguns put down 
flirting and substituted soldiering.” 

“ But why? ” asked Betty. 

“ I suppose flirting put a man off his fighting. The 
samurai was taught to practise a life of absolute 


BETTY STANDISH 


76 

self-restraint and perfect devotion to his over-lord; 
he mustn’t let any girl come between him and his 
duty. In fact, the samurai had to be the sword.” 

“ Had to be the sword, Mr. Tracey? ” 

“Yes! He had to be the sword. His emotions 
were nothing; his life was nothing; he was just the 
sword in his daimyo’s hand. The old samurai was 
a magnificent fellow, modest, unselfish, and as loyal 
and keen as a sword. If he had thought of his wife 
before his duty, or come under a woman’s influence, 
it would have spoilt him. It was the samurai spirit 
that made the Japanese do such marvellous things in 
the Russian war.” 

“ It’s much the same in England,” said Betty, 
thoughtfully. “ When Mrs. Colonel begins to talk 
about ‘ my regiment,’ it’s fatal to soldiering.” 

Well, Miss Standish, the samurai’s wife had to 
fit herself in, somehow. She couldn’t practise loy- 
alty towards the daimyo — her duty was towards her 
husband — so she made him her daimyo. She had 
been taught from babyhood to be modest, truthful, 
charitable, and dainty — she mustn’t gossip with the 
servants or listen to scandal — and she devoted all 
these good qualities to her husband, with perfect loy- 
alty. By the way, the Japanese gentlemen are sim- 
ply devoted to their wives and children.” 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 


77 


“ I don’t wonder! ” cried the girl. “ I wish we 
were more like them! Why didn’t you marry a 
Japanese, Mr. Tracey?” 

John raised himself on his elbow, and looked at 
her. She was disclosing quite a new Betty to him. 
“ What are your ideas of the right sort of English- 
woman, Miss Standish? ” he asked. 

“ I think she ought to be a little different from 
the Japanese,” she answered. “ I think she ought 
to be just as loyal and free from gossip; but I 
think she ought to be quite as keen as a man. I 
think she ought to understand enough about her 
husband’s work to take a tremendous interest, with- 
out interfering.” 

“ You don’t give her a very important part, Miss 
Standish.” 

Betty smiled wisely: “ I think she would encour- 
age her husband to do better than anyone else. I 
think ” — her eyes were fixed on the daisy — “ her 
samurai would be a very good samurai.” 

John was simply worshipping her. “ I think so 
too,” he said softly. 

It will be noticed that they were discussing mar- 
ried woman, not woman in the abstract. 

“ But, you mustn’t think I’m not modern!” 
Betty flung down what was left of the daisy. “ A 


78 


BETTY STANDISH 


woman may have her own work, just as much as 
a man: she may have something beside house- 
keeping and — and encouraging her husband. How 
shall I explain it? I suppose you’ll look after your 
estate ? What do you call looking after your 
estate, Mr. Tracey? ” 

“ Duty,” said he. 

“Oh! How perfect!” cried Betty. “That 
makes what I’m trying to say so easy! The work 
that a man has to do, or ought to do, is his duty. 
The work that he does for the work’s sake is his 
work: dad’s command of his regiment was his duty; 
his book on cavalry scouting was his work. 
Perhaps a man’s work isn’t the best thing he does,” 
the Colonel s book on scouting had been severely 
criticised — “ but it’s the realest part of him.” 

Do you realise that you’ve said something very 
clever? asked John; but she was too interested in 
the development of her theme to notice his praise. 

“ Have you any work, Mr. Tracey? ” 

He told her about his book on Japan, and she 
entered into the scheme with her whole soul. She 
was engaged, and the possibility of marrying John 
Tracey never entered her mind to embarrass her. 
“Your estate will be your duty, Mr. Tracey, and 
your book will be your work; and, if you were mar- 


WOMAN IN THE ABSTRACT 79 

ried, your wife ought to take a tremendous interest 
in ‘ An English View of Japan,’ because it would be 
the realest part of you.” 

“ A woman’s house and husband are her duty,” 
she continued; “ but she may have her work too- 
writing or painting or something — and if she’s my 
idea of a woman, she ought to want her husband to 
treat her work like man’s work, and not flatter.” 

“What’s your work, Miss Standish?” asked 
John. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered, looking troubled. 

Then it dawned on John that Betty’s work in life 
was to give the world children, as sweet and whole- 
some as herself; and he helped her up with great 
reverence. 


CHAPTER IX 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 

Tea was finished, and the lengthening shadows and 
cooling air showed that it was time to be getting 
after the pigeons; but if you had only seen how the 
sunshine, filtering through the yellow blinds, had 
converted Betty and her holland dress into a sym- 
phony in golden yellow, you would have understood 
that John was in no hurry to leave the drawing- 
room. The girl was sitting in an easy-chair, the 
floor was polished, and there was a small mahogany 
table with a vase of Marechal Niel roses beside her: 
all things considered, Whistler must have been a 
mere dauber — at least so John thought. 

But time was passing, and Tracey returned to a 
subject which he had broached earlier in the after- 
noon. “ Then you’ll stay for dinner, Colonel? ” 

“Hum,” replied the Colonel, who was feeling 
comfortable, and who wanted to stay, “ I can’t sit 
down in this kit. Besides, you’ll be sick of us, 
Tracey.” 

“ Think of my hair,” added Betty. 

80 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 81 

As for your clothes, sir,” said John, persua- 
sively, we 11 have a pigeon dinner, just as we are. 
It will give me an excuse for not changing. As for 
your hair, IVIiss Standish, said he, looking down at 
her, you should just see how Gill arranges flowers. 
He’ll crown you with roses or garnish you with 
stephanotis, and I believe maidenhair is rather a 
weakness of his.” Again he turned to the Colonel : 

Then its settled, sir? Well, I suppose we ought 
to be moving.” He held back the blind, so that his 
guests could go out into the portico. 

I think Tracey likes to have his way,” re- 
marked the Colonel as he stepped through the win- 
dow, and held out his hand to help his daughter. 

I think Mr. Tracey generally has his way,” cor- 
rected Betty. 

Please God ! ” said John Tracey. 

Weymouth and an under-keeper were waiting 
outside on the terrace, the former with a couple of 
spaniels, the latter carrying the guns. “ If you send 
for some pigeons for the kitchen at six, and come 
yourself about six-thirty, we shan’t want you now,” 
said John. “ Yes, sir,” answered Weymouth, some- 
what disappointed; and Betty looked her gratitude, 
for it is nervous work for a girl, even though she 
may handle her gun well, to shoot pigeons before 


82 


BETTY STANDISH 


two professionals. Then, shouldering his own and 
Betty’s guns, Tracey led the way along the tarred 
path below the rosery. There were large, unkempt 
clumps of laurels and rhododendrons on either side, 
and the path was overshadowed by pines. 

“ If you and Miss Standish walk in front, sir,” 
suggested John, “ I’ll work the dogs. We ought 
to pick up some rabbits.” He loaded Betty’s gun 
and handed it to her; then he made a motion with 
his hand, and one of the spaniels disappeared into 
the bushes on the right of the path, whilst the other 
worked the bushes on the left. 

Yap! yap! Bang! A rabbit had dodged from 
one clump of shrubs to another, and Colonel 
Standish had missed it clean. 

Yap! The rabbit scuttled across the path, only 
to be bowled over by the girl. It was a nice clean 
shot, well forward. 

“ Miss Standish wiped your eye then, sir,” 
laughed John, taking the rabbit from the spaniel and 
laying it in the middle of the path for Weymouth 
to pick up later. 

“ She did,” owned the Colonel. “ But I want to 
see those dogs of yours work, Tracey.” 

“ Mind, this is the first time I’ve worked these 
spaniels,” said John, “ so it’s hardly fair to them. 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 83 

There’s a great deal in a dog knowing your voice.” 
“Prentice! Prince!” The spaniels came to heel. 
He motioned his hand forward; they trotted along 
the path for some sixty yards and looked round; 
he waved his hand twice to the left, and they entered 
an extra thick clump of rhododendrons. 

Yap! Yap! A brace of rabbits bolted, to be 
rolled over right and left by Colonel Standish. 

“ He’s a regular old poacher,” cried Betty with 
a shrug of her shoulders. “ That second rabbit was 
really mine, Mr. Tracey; it crossed the path before 
he fired.” 

“ I believe she really thinks so,” said the Colonel, 
pinching her ear affectionately, and watching the 
spaniels retrieve the game. “ By Gad, aren’t those 
dogs pleased ! ” 

“ Whenever you care for a morning’s rabbiting, 
Colonel,” said John, “ and don’t want to be both- 
ered with a keeper, you’ve only to call for Prentice 
and Prince and work the lower woods. It’s a funny 
thing, but dogs will do anything for a man who kills 
his game, whilst they’ll either sulk or run wild with 
a duffer.” 

“ It’s awfully good of you, Tracey.” There was 
real gratitude in the Colonel’s voice: he had been 
too stiff lately to look forward to partridge shooting 


84 BETTY STANDISH 

with pleasure, and had been feeling a trifle low in 
consequence. 

“ Not a bit, sir,” answered John. “ I’ve a book 
to write, and generally speaking I’m up to my eyes 
in work. I should be grateful if you’d keep down 
the rabbits.” Thus do English gentlemen confer a 
favour. 

“Mark!” said John, as another rabbit bolted; 
but although the rabbit bolted on the Colonel’s side, 
the Colonel was not ready, and it was Betty’s gun 
that transmigrated the rabbit’s soul to its next rein- 
carnation. So they walked on, leaving eight or nine 
rabbits in the centre of the pathway. 

“Those are our decoys, sir,” remarked John, 
presently, pointing upwards to half a dozen pigeons 
on the top of some low fir-trees. “ We have real 
pigeons stuffed and mounted like weathercocks, so 
that their heads always point up-wind. “ Live 
pigeons,” he added, turning to Betty, “ always sit 
facing the wind; they don’t like having their feathers 
ruffled.” 

Some eddying breeze caught one of the pigeons, 
and it moved slightly. “ By Jove! ” muttered the 
Colonel, “ they’re almost alive! ” 

“ Now the birds will fly across the park,” con- 
tinued John, “ and come down over that row of elms 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 85 

which edge the park so as to pitch into the fir-trees. 
If we stand close under the elms, the pigeons won’t 
see us till it’s too late, and we ought to get some 
very pretty shooting.” 

Tracey posted his guns, with Colonel Standish 
in the centre and Betty and himself on either side. 
He placed the girl so that the birds would come from 
her right to left, which is the easiest way of taking 
a difficult shot. 

“ Mr. Tracey,” asked Betty, softly, “ why wasn’t 
my father poaching just now; the rabbit was on my 
side of the path? ” She had evidently been dwelling 
on the question. 

He smiled because it was such a feminine ques- 
tion to ask, and so unlike Betty. “ The rabbit came 
from his side, and gave him the best chance,” he 
whispered ; “ it was his till he’d had his chance. You 
can’t have boundaries in sport; it’s give and take. 
It’s when you are mean and steal the other man’s 
chances, that it’s poaching.” 

“ Thanks,” she whispered back; “ I see.” 

He walked over to his place, treading on air — 
the first confidential question marks an epoch in a 
friendship — and had hardly placed himself, when 
the opening flight of pigeons glided between the 
Colonel and Betty. The Colonel got a right and 


86 


BETTY STANDISH 


left; Betty missed. Again, a single bird came over 
Betty, and was missed. 

“ Gad! it’s sportin’,” remarked the Colonel. His 
last shot had been a tricky one, and he was pleased 
with himself. 

“ It’s the most difficult shooting I know, sir. It’s 
like shooting at falling glass balls that you haven’t 
seen thrown up.” Then he crossed over to Betty, 
and asked if he might look at her gun. 

“ It’s only a second-hand one which I saw adver- 
tised,” she explained. “ It isn’t up to much, but I’ve 
grown used to it.” 

She handed it to him, and he put it up to his shoul- 
der. “ It may do all right for rabbiting, Miss 
Standish,” said he, “ but it’s no good for this sort 
of work. It’s too long and heavy in the barrel; it’s 
too long and bent in the stock; and you’re bound to 
shoot below your bird. Look ! ” He swung the gun 
as if to follow an imaginary bird from over the elm- 
trees. “ You follow your bird down,” he explained; 
“ the bent stock and heavy barrel pull the gun down- 
wards, and you shoot below the bird. It’s bound to 
happen. I want you to try my gun ; it’s a sixteen-bore 
Holland, and you’ll either kill or miss.” 

“ But ” 

“ Please try it! ” There was that note of finality 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 87 

in John’s voice that marks the difference between 
conferring a favour, and offering an act of courtesy 
from a man to a woman: you hear the same note 
when the right sort of man offers his seat to a 
woman in the Underground. She refuses, and he 
says: “ Please take my seat.” It is something that 
every woman likes to hear because it offers homage 
to her womanhood; it is something that no woman 
can refuse without unsexing herself. If John had 
been thrilled by Betty’s confidence, Betty was 
thrilled now — in a friendship between a lady and a 
gentleman, the first time the man speaks to the 
woman marks an epoch. 

“Thank you,” said Betty; and, what was more, 
she looked her thanks. 

She held out her hand for the gun, and was just 
going to try the feel of it, when a single bird 
“ dropped out of everywhere into here.” She fired, 
and the bird continued its descent. 

“ What a ripping shot! ” said Tracey. 

“ It’s the gun,” said she. “ It’s as light as a 
feather, and as handy as anything.” 

Tracey had hardly returned to his station before 
the homing began in earnest. He incontinently 
killed the three first birds with three shots from 
Betty’s ill-conditioned fowling-piece, and was an- 


88 


BETTY STANDISH 


swered with three soft laughs from the other end 
of the firing line. Then the Colonel and Betty be- 
came busy. Colonel Standish was alternately killing 
and swearing below his breath; Betty was bringing 
down her birds in an astonishing manner. The girl 
was what is called “ a fine natural shot,” and she 
was not handicapped by the formed habit of shoot- 
ing at rising birds like a more experienced sports- 
man. At six o’clock, the under-keeper was able to 
select four brace of the plumpest young pigeons he 
had ever come across; at a quarter to seven, Wey- 
mouth came and opened his eyes at the pile of 
pigeons that had fallen to the three guns. 

The light was beginning to fail when John sug- 
gested that they should send the dogs home by the 
keepers, and walk back along the upper path on the 
chance of picking up a rabbit in the ’tween-lights. 
They walked along the path, the Colonel and Betty 
in front and John behind: a few shots had been fired 
at shadowy rabbits, and John had bagged a brace 
when something moved in the undergrowth — it 
looked almost like a rabbit in the half-light. 

Don t ! shouted John, as Betty’s gun went to 
her shoulder; but as he shouted she fired, and the 
something waltzed into the open, biting its flank. 

“Damn!” muttered the Colonel, as John fired 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 89 

both barrels to put the waltzing thing out of pain. 
What happened then is indescribable. 

To say that Colonel Standish swore, would be 
to tell one of those half truths which is the worst 
form of untruthfulness; for he swore like a peppery 
gentleman, he swore only as a safety-valve, and he 
did not give way to a single recrimination; if he 
had bitten his lip and suggested that the girl had 
made a pretty mess, it would have been a thousand 
times worse. To say that Tracey was calm, would 
be to ignore that he was exceedingly sorry for Betty. 
The two of them treated the accident as a sort of 
family catastrophe, and not as something that Betty 
had done. 

“ It was ray fault for keeping on shooting,” said 
John. “ We ought to have knocked off before it 
grew dusk; it might have happened to me or any- 
one!” 

“ I nearly shot the beggar, myself! ” Alas for 
truth ! The Colonel had not even seen the incident 
until it was too late to prevent the shot. 

“ But a fox! ” sobbed Betty, clutching at John’s 
arm. Then she buried her face in her hands. 

“ Look here,” said John, pulling down one of her 
hands and holding it firmly. “ Everyone does some- 
thing awful, once or twice — jumps on a hound, or 


90 


BETTY STANDISH 


shoots a beater, or something — we’re not a parcel 
of duffers. It’s all right if we don’t try to hide it. 
Is Middleton still the M.F.H., Colonel? ” 

“ Middleton,” answered the Colonel more cheer- 
fully, “ is a good chap.” 

“ He’s one of my oldest friends,” continued John 
with relief, “ I’ve only to tell him, and he’ll keep 
the thing dark. Besides, we’ve more cubs at Tracey 
this year than I can stand, and more than they can 
kill cubbing. He’ll have to thin off some in any 
case.” 

“ Is that so?” asked Colonel Standish somewhat 
doubtfully. 

“Yes!” answered John, glancing at Betty. 
“ And look here, Miss Standish, I’ll write to Mid- 
dleton and tell him how I managed to kill the cub. 
You know, sir”— this to the Colonel — “I don’t 
believe Miss Standish did more than pepper him — I 
believe he’d have gone off all right when he got 
over the shock— I wish I hadn’t been so infernally 
hasty.” 

“No!” cried Betty, recovering her hand from 
Tracey; “ it’s very sweet of you, and all that; but 
I shot the fox, and I’m going to play the game. 
Dad, would you let Mr. Tracey sacrifice himself, if 
you were me? ” 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 91 

“Certainly not!” said Colonel Standish with 
decision. “ We must tell Middleton ex-act-ly what 
happened.” 

Then she realised that Tracey was being very 
good to her, and (it was getting quite dusk) she 
slipped her hand into his and gave it the ghost of 
a squeeze, and whispered: “I understand.” But 
Colonel Standish was beginning to understand far 
more than she did. 

“ Well, here goes! ” said Tracey, flinging the cub 
into the laurels. He placed an old envelope beside 
the path so that Weymouth could find the spot, and 
asked Betty for a hair-pin to pin down the paper. 

“ By Gad ! ” thought the Colonel, as he fell behind 
and let the other two walk on in front. It had 
never seriously occurred to him that he must sooner 
or later lose Betty, and he did not like the idea. If 
he could have chosen, he would have preferred a 
younger man, but Tracey was a good chap and well 
off. He would not have thought anything of 
Tracey’s extreme friendliness; he would not have 
thought anything of Tracey’s extreme chivalry over 
the cub; but he had seen him looking at Betty when 

she was looking the other way, and — well 

The Standishes seated themselves in low, com- 
fortable chairs before the drawing-room fire, for 


92 


BETTY STANDISH 


the evening had grown cool enough to make a fire 
welcome, whilst John went to the writing-table. 

“ Dear Middleton,” he wrote, “ Colonel and 
Miss Standish were rabbiting with me this after- 
noon. As we were coming home in the dusk, Miss 
Standish caught sight of something moving, and had 
the ill-luck to pot a cub instead of a rabbit. You 
or I might have made the same mistake. If there is 
any blame, it is mine for not knocking off sooner. 

“ By the way, I want to see you about killing off 
some of the cubs. We have no less than five earths 
this year, and I don’t believe in expatriating the 
infants. 

“ Yours, 

“ John M. Tracey.” 

“ Now add something, Miss Standish,” said 
John, handing the letter to Betty. “We’ll make 
it a round robin.” She read through the letter and 
added : 

“ I would almost rather have shot a spaniel. 

“ Betty Standish.” 

The Colonel stretched out his hand, and, after 
reading, added: 


“Damn! W. V. S.” 


RABBITS AND PIGEONS 


93 

“ I must put in a postscript, asking him to keep 
the matter dark,” said John; but he really wrote: 

“ If you can come over this evening, I’ll send a 
cart for you. The girl’s heart-broken. — J. M. T.” 

He sent off the letter by a groom. 

“ This is the first time, for more’n twelve years, 
that I’ve tried my hand at gardenin’,” grinned 
Weymouth (a keeper may preserve foxes, but he 
hates them all the same) as he cut out the sods that 
were stained by the life-blood of the infant vixen, 
and replaced them with fresh turf. “ Now for the 
funeral ! ” 


CHAPTER X 


DINNER 

Betty had gone upstairs, conducted by the house- 
keeper, to find a cup of tea awaiting her and 
one of the housemaids ready to assist with the 
toilet. 

As soon as the drawing-room door had closed 
behind her, Tracey turned to the Colonel, and the 
Colonel turned to Tracey. “I think, sir,” said 
John, ringing the bell, “ a liqueur brandy— and— 
wine glasses.” 

Tumblers peg tumblers — whew ! ” and they re- 
lapsed into silence. 

If it had only been one of us, sir ! ” said 

John, sipping his cognac. 

A girl ! And a keen little sportswoman at that! 
Oh, damn ! ” Colonel Standish emptied his glass 
and set it down on the table. “ If it gets about, it’ll 
break her heart! ” 

But it can t get about, sir. Only we three and 
Weymouth and Middleton know, and I’ll answer 
for both Weymouth and Middleton.’' 


94 


DINNER 


95 

“ Hum — yes — I suppose so,” grunted the Colonel, 
and again silence reigned. 

u It makes one feel as if one had been mixed up 
in a murder,” mused John — “ accessory after fact 
— doesn’t it? ” 

“ Can’t say, Tracey — haven’t your experience. 
By Jove! though I’d forgotten — nearly shot a na- 
tive in mistake for a buck, once. Wanted a drink, 
too.” 

“ Here’s Miss Standish, Colonel,” whispered 
John. “ Foxes barred; shooting barred.” Then 
he raised his voice: “He was an awfully clever 
little chap, sir: he could draw anything in a couple 
of strokes.” John’s continuation of an imaginary 
conversation was a really fine piece of acting. 

“Hallo, Miss Standish!” he said, rising very 
lazily as the girl entered the room. “ Has Gill 
done your hair tastefully? I was telling Colonel 
Standish about a Japanese artist who came over in 
the same boat with me. He wasn’t one of the real 
artists, you know, only a wood-engraver, and he 
was travelling steerage; but he was an awfully 
clever little chap.” 

“ Yes? ” said Betty, seating herself. The tragedy 
of the vixen had deepened the shading below her 
eyes in the most bewitching way. 


96 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Well, I used to go over to the steerage and 
talk to him, and he used to tell me stories. Just 
before we reached Marseilles, I told him a story 
from Lafcadio Hearn’s ‘ Kwaidan,’ and when I said 
good-bye he handed me a packet. Here’s his letter.” 
John went over to the writing-table and picked up 
a large envelope. “ I must explain that he had 
been partly educated at a mission-school, and partly 
in a publisher’s office,” he added, handing Betty a 
letter; “ and he was very modern.” 

“ Dear Sir,” she read, u I herewith enclose prom- 
ised pictures which graciously deign to accept. They 
are only unworthy copies of ancient print, adapted 
to occasion as per agreement, and are unworthy of 
honourable notice except to split the sides. But no 
further ideas to hand. Trusting you will have a 
ripping journey, D.V., 

“ Yours in the faith, 

“ Kinjuro Otani.” 

“Have you read ‘Kwaidan,’ Miss Standish?” 
inquired John, as she looked up from the letter. 

“ No! ” she answered, smiling. 

I shan’t attempt to tell the particular story 
Kinjuro has illustrated; you must read it as it is 
written; but it amounts to this: An old merchant 
of Tokio was passing a haunted moat, late in the 


DINNER 


97 


evening, when he found what appeared to be an 
honourable damsel weeping, with her head buried 
in one of her long sleeves. When he begged her 
to let him help her, the honourable damsel turned 
round and dropped her sleeve, and stroked her face 
with her hand; and the man saw that she had no 
eyes or nose or mouth, and he screamed and ran 
away. Here’s Kinjuro’s illustration”; and he 
handed it to her. 

“ Oh! No wonder! ” said Betty. 

“ He fled to the light of an itinerant buckwheat 
seller, crying ‘Aa! — aa ! ! — aa!!!* The pedlar 
spoke to him roughly, asking what had scared him. 
4 1 saw — I saw a woman — by the moat,’ groaned the 
merchant; 4 — and she showed me — Aa! I cannot 

tell you what she showed me ! ’ ” 

4 4 4 He! Was it anything like THIS that she 
showed you ? ’ cried the pedlar, stroking his own 

face — which therewith became like unto an egg 

And, simultaneously the light went out.” John 
handed her the second picture. 

44 What a heavenly picture! ” cried Betty; 44 and 
what a heavenly story! And how it piles up the 
agony! Poor merchant ! ” 

44 It does pile up the incident,” answered John. 
44 But I’ll lend you Hearn’s book. I knew him per- 


98 


BETTY STANDISH 


sonally, and he’s one of the very few Europeans — 
only he was an American — who understands the real 
Japan. But you’d like to wash your hands before 
dinner, Colonel? ” And he led Colonel Standish 
away for his ablutions. 

Betty took up the prints, laid them down, and 
looked into the fire. What a strange day she had 
had, and what a lot she had seen of Mr. Tracey. 
From start to finish he had not bored her a bit, and 
she did not seem to have bored him. She found 
him interesting and she liked the way he talked; it 
wasn’t a bit like the way the men she knew talked, 
nor was it like the few self-improved, self-made men 
she had come across. (Of course she did not realise 
that John had been educated at home, whilst the 
Protestant men that she knew talked public school 
language.) She wondered how Tom would like him 

Tom Courtenay was the man she was engaged to. 
What a time they were washing their hands ! 

She got up and strolled into the conservatory 
which opened out of the drawing-room and which 
was partly lit by the light that came through the 
glass doors. The light fell on some late flowering 
digitalis on the rockery in the corner, and Betty 
turned away and shuddered: fox-gloves were too 
suggestive. Then some impulse moved her, and 


DINNER 99 

she took a Marechal Niel from the rose-bowl on the 
table, and placed it behind her ear: Mr. Tracey 
should see that an English girl could look as dainty 
as a Japanese. She went to a mirror to note the 
effect. “ There’s no doubt, Betty Standish,” said 
she, “you’re very pretty!” She lifted her chin 
slightly and smiled at her reflection. Then, for 
some reason or other, she blushed, took out the 
rose, and hastily put it back in the rose-bowl. 

The dinner itself was delightful, for although 
the menu might have been a trifle old-fashioned— 
especially in Gill’s desire to serve a full gamut of 
wines with the different courses — the Traceys had 
always leant towards Latin refinement rather than 
towards British profusion. Again, both glass and 
silver were exquisite, which is no small matter, and 
Gill’s waiting was that art which conceals art. 

Betty enjoyed herself. She was a man’s girl, 
which is quite the nicest sort of girl; and she listened 
to the talk of India and Japan, asking questions, 
and she joined in the talk of sport and travel, and 
was treated neither as a canary nor as a puppet; so 
when dinner was over, and it was time for her to 
retire to the drawing-room, she was sorry. 

“ I suppose I ought to catch someone’s eye, or 
someone ought to catch my eye, or something,” said 


IOO 


BETTY STANDISH 


Betty, regretfully. “A (a young girl) and B (her 
father) are the guests of C (a gentleman). Is that 
clear, Mr. Tracey? ” 

“ Lucid! ” answered John. 

“ Dinner being finished, and A — knowing that she 
ought to leave the room — is in doubt as to whether 
she should catch C’s eye or make a move on her 
own account, and feels shy and miserable. What 
ought A to do? ” 

“ A should either shuffle her feet so as to attract 
attention,” proposed John, “ and then make a 

movement as though to rise; or else — or else 

What else could she do, Colonel? ” 

“ She might say: ‘ Remember the port’s bad for 
your rheumatism, dad,’ and scuttle. Eh, Betty? ” 
“That’s the way I’m treated, Mr. Tracey! ” ex- 
claimed Betty, as John drew back her chair. “ If 
you had to live with my father, you’d be pretty 
careful he did not drink too much port.” And she 
swept across the room with as much dignity as her 
short holland skirts would permit. 

He held open the door for her with expectation; 
for, when one opens the door for a lady, it is but 
polite to look down at her and smile; and, when 
one opens the door for a lady, it is but courteous for 
the lady to look up and return the smile. “ We 


DINNER IOI 

won’t sit too long over the wine, Miss Standish,” 
said John. 

“ I could hardly have suggested that, could I? ” 
said she with just the least suspicion of impudence. 

“ Oh you darling! ” thought Tracey. 

He returned to his seat and, filling his glass, 
placed the decanter before Colonel Standish. “ To 
accuse this wine of causing rheumatism,” he 
remarked, “ is to accuse a saint of impropriety. It’s 
’63, bottled in ’67, and there’s not an ache left in 
the whole bin. Besides,” he added, smiling, “ as 
Miss Standish suggested, I don’t live with you, sir.” 

“ The worst of a ’63 is that you must drink it to 
save it,” said the Colonel, with a sigh. He held 
his glass up to the light: “Gad, what a colour the 
wine’s got!” — he sniffed it — “and what a bou- 
quet! ” 

“ It’s the swan-song of the vintage — ‘ the fading 
splendour of some great glory!’ In another few 
years, the wine will be merely a curiosity — Sic 
transit gloria mundi! That would make a good 
motto for a Sunday bean-feast : transit gloria should 
be translated ‘elation passes’; sic mundi needs no 
translation. Forgive the pun, Colonel.” 

“Might be rendered: ‘To-day’s port — to-mor- 
row’s gout.’ ” 


102 


BETTY STANDISH 


“Sir!” protested Tracey; “my wine leaves no 
gout. I think we might send the coffee into the 
drawing-room,” he added, as the coffee was brought 
in. “ It will show Miss Standish that we’re com- 
ing; and it’s a sin to spoil this wine.” 

“ It is,” said the Colonel. 

“ And Gill can leave the cigars.” 

Tracey drew a breath. What he meant to say 
must be said without interruption, and he had been 
talking to mark time until the coffee had come. 

“ I want your permission to try and win Miss 
Standish, sir,” said John, coming straight to the 
point. 

“What?” answered the Colonel, hardly believ- 
ing his ears. One may contemplate the German 
invasion as a serious probability, but one would be 
no less surprised if one was told that the Germans 
had landed. 

“ I have fallen in love with Miss Standish, sir,” 
repeated John, quietly; “ and I want your consent 
to start with.” 

Colonel Standish fingered the stem of his wine- 
glass, whilst his eyes narrowed. To make such a 
request on the first day of their acquaintance verged 
on the brutal. “ I think,” he answered, dropping 
out his words one by one, “ that — you — had — better 


DINNER 


103 

— speak — to — Miss — Standish — ah — first.” Then he 
warmed up: “ By God, Tracey, it isn’t decent! ” 

“ As soon as you have heard my reasons, sir,” 
answered John with exasperating calmness, “ I think 
you will say that it’s very decent. In the first place, 
I may clear the way by saying that there is nothing 
against my character.” He paused to light a cigar 
with apparent deliberation, but really to arrange 
what he had to say. “ I’m thirty-five, and I know 
my own mind,” he continued. “ I have fallen hon- 
estly and deeply in love with your daughter, and I 
wish for your consent to start with.” 

“Gad! You don’t expect me to tie up the girl 
and hand her over to you,” snapped the Colonel. 
“ She must answer the question herself.” 

“ I think that I asked permission to try and win 
your daughter,” said John, dryly. “ I fight my own 
battles.” 

The Colonel’s face commenced to clear, and he 
sipped his port. “I begin to see,” he remarked; 
then he grew suspicious and added: “She’s very 
pretty.” 

“ You may put her face through the mangle, for 
all I care! ” answered John with sudden heat. This 
really was a very pig-headed old man. 


104 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Then why — hum — what are you in love with? ” 
He had the right to try and fathom this incompre- 
hensible fellow. 

Tracey was gravelled. 

“ Does not mind if she’s put through the man- 
gle ” muttered the Colonel. He took a cigar, 

whilst Tracey filled his own glass, and pushed the 
decanter towards him. Then he thought of his own 
personal experience. “You’ll — be — hum ” re- 
marked Colonel Standish. 

They smoked in silence for some minutes, and it 
was Colonel Standish who broke covert. “ I under- 
stand,” he grumbled. “ Was in love with her 
mother.” Again they smoked in silence, and again 
the Colonel broke the silence: “ Do you mind tellin’ 
me why you asked me before you found out what 
my daughter thought? ” 

“ It seemed the straight thing,” said John. “ Be- 
sides, I’d have had to ask you some time — and if 
she refuses me I don’t care who knows.” 

“ Or what happens,” added the Colonel, sympa- 
thetically. 

John nodded his head. “ Besides, sir, there’s too 
much of the other thing. A man runs after a girl, 
and she and her people think he’s in love until he 
tells them he’s going to marry another girl. Fancy 


DINNER 


105 

a modern father asking a man his intentions! I 
don’t like it.” 

“ By Gad! You’re right,” answered the Colonel. 
Neither of them realised that, under this plan, a 
father might use undue influence on behalf of a de- 
sirable suitor, even to coercion. Neither realised 
that a girl might resent having her hand asked for, 
before she herself had been asked. There are two 
sides to every question. 

“ As to the settlement,” began John. 

“ Better ask her to marry you first,” interrupted 
the Colonel. He was accustomed to judge men 
quickly, and John seemed a most desirable husband 
for his daughter. He fumbled underneath his waist- 
coat, and bringing out a small miniature, unhooked 
it from its chain. “ Her mother,” he said, handing 
the portrait to Tracey. “ She was an Italian.” 
John saw a face that was almost the exact image 
of Betty’s, and, moved by a mutual impulse, the two 
men gripped hands. 

“We oughtn’t to leave Betty any longer? ” said 
her father. 


CHAPTER XI 


AFTER DINNER 

In trying to reconstruct past social life, there is a 
great difficulty in reconciling the reputed toper with 
his actual wine-glass — for example, it will be found 
that the three-bottle cavalier must have toasted his 
king over the water no less than forty-six times, 
before he reached his limit — but although the 
Tracey glasses were long-stemmed things, stamped 
with the Stuart roses (and believe me, the Traceys 
were almost as proud of the presence of this rebel 
glass, which could not have been melted down for 
the king’s use, as they were of the absence of Stuart 
silver which could), and although the Colonel and 
John could not have drunk more than the third of 
a bottle of port between them, they had spent longer 
over their conversation than they had intended, and 
they entered the drawing-room with some concern. 
However, they found a cheerful Betty, nay more, 
an excited Betty; for they found Betty with an 
44 Idea.” 

‘ I’ve a plan,” said she, pouring out the coffee 
for John and her father. “ It will cost Mr. Tracey 
106 


AFTER DINNER 107 

a heap of money, and it’ll make a fearful mess, but 
I think he’ll like it.” 

The lady has but to command, and the samurai 
to obey,” remarked John, watching her. It was 
stimulating to watch this particular girl play the 
hostess in this particular room, and delightfully 
suggestive. 

Nonsense!” replied Betty, firmly. “It is the 
samurai that must plan, and the lady who must 
encourage : besides it must be the samurai’s own 
particular lady. You’ll be getting yourself into a 
frightful tangle, Mr. Tracey, if you start this just 
because Betty Standish suggested it.” She shook 
her head wisely: “ You’ll have to do something else 
because Agnes Porter suggested it, and something 
else because Mrs. Markham suggested it. Please 
be logical, Mr. Tracey: I’m in earnest.” 

“ She wants me to be logical, sir,” replied John, 
speaking at Betty through the Colonel. “ She plans 
something, and wants me to do it; but I must only 
do what I have planned by myself, whilst she must 
only encourage; and yet, if she encourages me, I’ll 
be entangled with Markham’s wife whom I’ve never 
met, and with Aggie Porter whom I can only remem- 
ber as an awful skinny-legged child.” 

“ You’re very clever, Mr. Tracey! ” she retorted 


108 BETTY STANDISH 

warmly; for it is very aggravating to be answered 
with nonsense, when one is in earnest. 

“ I’m sorry,” said John, gently. “ If I can do 
what you suggest, I will.” 

She had been pouring out some more coffee for 
herself, and she led the way over to the window at 
the end of the room, still holding the nearly empty 
coffee-pot. Pulling the blind outwards, she stepped 
behind it; John followed her, and Colonel Standish 
was left to his thoughts. 

He found himself in the position of a person 
who knows one side of the plot of a story, and not 
the other. He could form a pretty good idea of 
what Tracey would do, but he was quite in the 
dark about Betty; he knew John’s intentions, but 
he had no idea how his daughter would respond. 
He had seen her friendly with St. John Postle- 
thwaite, he had seen her flirt a little with Tom 
Courtenay; but her sudden friendship with Tracey 
was entirely different and much more absorbing 
than her friendship with Postlethwaite, and she 
was certainly not flirting. Knowing, as we know, 
more than the Colonel, we may hazard the sugges- 
tion that, whilst both John and Betty had that 
mutual sympathy which is the foundation of real 
affection, the man had taken the fire of the initiative 


AFTER DINNER 


109 


whereas the girl had not yet caught the fire of the 
responsive; that, conscious of her engagement to 
Courtenay, Betty had no thought of slipping into 
more than mere friendship with Tracey, and that 
the idea of falling in love had not entered her mind; 
but of course, since only fools pretend to under- 
stand women, this is only pure guess-work. 
Colonel Standish was intensely interested in the 
affair and anxious about its next development, and 
he was very glad that Tracey had taken him into 
his confidence. 

John backed out from behind the window-blind, 
and Betty followed him with triumph written all 
over her. “ He sees it, dad,” she proclaimed. 

“ Not in the least, sir,” corrected John. “ Miss 
Standish has proposed a scheme based on purely 
aesthetic grounds; I have evolved a somewhat sim- 
ilar scheme on purely utilitarian grounds. It is for 
me to plan; Miss Standish may encourage if she 
likes, and she may get Mrs. Markham and Aggie 
Porter to help her — it won’t make any difference.” 

“What are you drivin’ at?” asked the Colonel. 

“ He’s going to make a lake,” answered Betty. 

“ I’m going to make a mill-dam,” corrected 
Tracey. 

“ Come and look, dad,” she ordered, ignoring 


no 


BETTY STANDISH 


his correction; and, putting down the coffee-pot 
which was growing somewhat heavy, she again led 
the way behind the window-blind. “Look!” she 
said. 

The moon was shining on the terrace, the moon 
was shining on the mist in the valley, and the 
lights of Coombe Ottery were shining beyond. A 
train was creeping along the side of the hills oppo- 
site, and the lights in the railway carriages looked 
very jolly. 

“ Think of those lights reflected from a lake ! ” 
suggested Betty. 

“ And the reflection of the train, like a crawling 
worm of glory,” added Tracey. “ But it isn’t going 
to be a lake, sir,” he explained. “ It’s going to be 
a mill-dam, a nice, useful mill-dam.” 

“ The port’s gone to your head, Tracey,” 
laughed the Colonel, knowing full well that there 
is a more heady wine than was ever pressed from 
the grape. 

“ Not in the least, sir. Whilst we were in the 
dining-room, Miss Standish looked out of this 
window and imagined a lake; when I came in she 
suggested a lake. I say that a lake would ruin me, 
whilst a mill-dam would reflect the lights quite as 
well.” 


AFTER DINNER 


in 


“What is he driving at? ” sighed Colonel 
Standish. 

“ You see, Colonel, if I made a lake it would 
have to be an Anglo-Italian Renaissance Classical 
lake, with marble steps and statues in keeping with 
the house, and I should ruin myself, as surely as 
my grandfather ruined himself building Tracey. If 
I make a simple mill-pond, it won’t cost more than 
I can afford.” 

“ Don’t you see, dad,” said Betty; “ Mr. Tracey 
is only laughing at me? I said that the man ought 
to plan, and the woman encourage, and so he takes 
my suggestion, and twists it round into a plan of 
his own.” 

“ If you’ll come in, out of the moonshine, I’ll 
explain my plan,” said John. “ I believe Miss 
Standish has made a perfectly practical suggestion. 
Only,” he added, “ it must be a mill-pond, and I’ll 
show you why.” 

As they left the window, he managed to get in 
an aside. “You’ll encourage, Miss Standish?” he 
whispered. 

“ We’ll all encourage,” she answered cautiously. 

“ Now, here’s a sketch map,” said John, going 
over to the writing-table, and drawing. Betty 


1 12 


BETTY STANDISH 


looked over his shoulder, whilst the Colonel waited 
until the sketch was finished. 

“You will observe, Miss Standish,” remarked 
Tracey, drawing rapidly, “ that this is Coombe 
Ottery; the road has a much prettier curve than 
this, and I am not putting in the trees and hedges. 
Here comes the far side of the lake — I mean pond 
; — following the mill-leat. The weir would come 
about 4 A,’ and that corner of the lake, right up 
to the bridge, will be hidden and broken by the 
trees at the bottom of the park. Here is the back 
view of the house — I’m afraid I’ve drawn it rather 
wobbly. Is it quite clear? ’’ 

“ But the top of the lake ? ” suggested Betty. 

“ Alas! The top of the pond is beyond my skill. 
Observe the slope of the woods falling towards the 
lake. We’ll have to cut a sort of cliff, and build 
a summer-house. Please notice the reflection of the 
mill, which I now add to my drawing. I subscribe 
Johannes M. Tracey fecit, a.d. 1908, and shall stick 
it into ‘ The Book of the Traceys.’ ” 

“ Sir, you are a great Master!” said the girl, 
“ stick it into ‘ The Book of the Traceys.’ ” 

44 Madam, it is only your wit that comprehends! ” 
replied John. 44 We will now proceed to tempt criti- 
cism.” 


AFTER DINNER 


113 

“You see, sir,’’ said Tracey, handing the sketch 
to Colonel Standish, “ we start with the old bridge, 
and the embankment which carries the road to the 
bridge: this will form one end of the lake. Then 



we take the leat which carries the water to Snow’s 
mill: this will form the far side of the lake, and set 
the level of the water. The mill itself will be left 
on a sort of island. The slope of the park will form 
the near side. I think that the arches of the bridge 
will be high enough to allow one overflow under 
the bridge, and we must build a big weir at 4 A,* 


BETTY STANDISH 


114 

so that the floods may run off without raising the 
level of the lake — I mean pond. All that will have 
to be done will be to strengthen and face the road- 
embankment, build a dam under the bridge, and 
make the weir: of course the upper end of the lake 
will have to be dug out and deepened, but this will 
only need rough labour. The idea seems workable.” 

u It’ll cost a lot of money,” said Colonel Standish, 
gravely. “ When you once get playin’ about with 
water, especially in a light soil like this, you don’t 
know what’ll happen.” 

“ Money’s been accumulating for some years, 
sir,” replied John, “ and it will certainly improve 
the property. Besides, there’ll be a lot out of work 
round here this winter, and it will only want un- 
skilled labour to dig out the lake.” 

“ Hum — I see,” remarked the Colonel. 

“ Make-up relief work is all rot, sir,” continued 
Tracey. “ No one is in earnest, and it demoralises 
the men; but real honest work will be a blessing 
to a good many families this winter. And,” he con- 
cluded, “ think about the trout, Colonel ! Three- 
pounders to a fish ! ” 

“You’re a dear!” cried Betty, impulsively; 
alluding to the poor, and not to the trout. 

He looked at her, as much as to ask whether she 


AFTER DINNER 


ii5 

would encourage him in the work; and she, under- 
standing, smiled her consent. 

The door opened, and Gill announced: “ Captain 
Middleton ! ” 

Kindly and talkative to a fault — far too kindly 
for the mastership of a subscription-pack where the 
subscriptions were sometimes apt to be overlooked, 
and far too merry-tongued to control the horse- 
breaking contingent of the Coombe Ottery Fox- 
hounds as they ought to have been controlled — Mid- 
dleton made straight for Betty, with his hands 
stretched out. 

“ I’ve had Tracey’s letter,” he said, taking both 
the girl’s hands. “ It was a sheer accident. Might 
have happened to anyone ! I’ve forgotten all about 
it. It never happened! See? That’s your line — 
it never happened! See? Beastly thing for a girl, 
simply beastly ! ” 

“ It’s awfully — kind — of — you — Captain Middle- 
ton,” answered Betty, with her cheeks as red as fire. 

“What’s kind? What are you talking about?” 

“Why?” stammered Betty — “The — cub — I — 
sh ” 

“ What cub? ” he interrupted. “ I’d like to catch 
anyone meddling with one of my cubs! Don’t you 
understand? It never happened! See? By this 


n6 


BETTY STANDISH 


and by that,” he rattled on, turning to Tracey, “ of 
course you’ll hunt this season, John — and you’ll hunt 
in pink! See? I’ll never speak to you again if you 
don’t turn out in pink! See? Too many ratcatchers 
out with the hounds. Dress same colour as the 
hedges, and curse if they’re jumped on. I’ll have 
some whisky before I drive home. Must be getting 
back. Ever tasted the Tracey whisky, Standish? 
Trancey’s ancestor’d never have jabbed old Thomas 
a Becket, if he’d stuck to the whisky ” 

And so on; and so on. One had to come to 
Middleton with some trouble, before he would let 
one get a word in edgeways; then there was nothing 
he would not do to try and help. His tongue some- 
times tripped him up; but his kindness and innate 
delicacy invariably pulled him through. 

As he was helping him on with his coat, Tracey 
asked Middleton if he knew of an easy, well- 
mannered hack; he only wanted it for light work 
such as riding about the estate, and a lady’s hack 
would suit him down to the ground. 

“ What? ” blurted out Middleton, who could see 
as far through a stone wall as most persons. “ For 
that pretty little girl in there? Might do worse— a 
thousand times worse for yourself, than make 
her ” 


AFTER DINNER 


117 

“Oh! shut up!” broke in Tracey. “You 
oughtn’t to drag a girl’s name into the conversation, 
Middleton.” 

“ Of course not! Damned bad form! ” answered 
the M.F.H. heartily. “ I’m beastly sorry — but she’s 
a delightful girl! See? You oughtn’t to have let 
her shoot in the dusk though. Saw somethin’ movin’ 
and loosed off; she’s too young to think ‘ Is it a 
rabbit? ’ By Gad! I’m glad to have you back, old 
chap. I’ll let you know about the horse. See? ” 

But, alas for his penitence ! As Middleton drove 
down the drive, he chuckled to himself: “Gad!” 
he chuckled. “ Hooked at last — hope he’ll pull it 
off. Damned nice girl! ” And, from simple force 
of habit, he chuckled: “ See? ” 

Middleton’s the same as ever, only older,” re- 
marked Tracey as he re-entered the drawing-room. 

“ If you must go, Colonel, you’ll have a whisky- 
and-soda first. I’m sure Miss Standish won’t mind 
us smoking.” He opened a bottle of soda-water 
and fetched a cigar-case from the writing-table. 
“ It’s strange,” he remarked, lighting a match for 
the Colonel, “ that the tongue is the only part of 
the human machinery which never wears out.” 

He hunted out some sort of a wrap for Betty, and 
insisted that she should wear it; and he strolled as 


1 1 8 


BETTY STAN DISH 


far as the bridge with his guests, arranging that 
they should inspect the site of the lake with him on 
the following morning. 

“ I’ve enjoyed my day awfully, Mr. Tracey,” said 
Betty, as they separated. “ I hope I haven’t bored 
you?” 

“ Everything that happened is worth entering,” 
answered he, showing a corner of the lace handker- 
chief. 

“ Whatever are you people drivin’ at? ” inquired 
Colonel Standish. 

“ He was only telling me that he is going to enter 
all about the lake and things in his journal, dad,” 
explained his daughter. 

As Tracey walked up the drive he felt his pocket 
to make sure that the handkerchief was really there, 
and that he had not dropped it. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 

Although Tracey’s idea of the “ mill-dam ” had 
originated merely in a desire to please Betty, it sup- 
plied a far better plan of campaign than his original 
scheme of persuading her to shoot, fish, ride, and 
walk with him; for Betty was too clever not to have 
seen through his excuses, too honest to have allowed 
him to fall in love with her unless she meant to 
return his love, and too honourable to risk know- 
ingly the loss of her own heart whilst she was en- 
gaged to Tom Courtenay. Besides, although the 
inception of the pond might have sprung from a 
wish to please Betty, further consideration showed 
that it would certainly improve the value of the 
property, and a sense of duty added that it would 
provide a winter’s work for those who needed em- 
ployment. So John threw himself into the scheme 
with energy, the making of the lake became Tracey’s 
“ work,” and Betty saw him at his best. 

What could be more natural than that John and 
Betty should enter into a sort of partnership — he 
the utilitarian overseer, she the aesthetical adviser? 


120 


BETTY STANDISH 


For, if he was the father of the mill-pond, she was 
the mother of the lake; and, although Betty had 
her At Homes and tennis-parties and John had to 
slip back into his place in the County, her mornings 
were free, and so were his, and the lake belonged 
to both of them. 

This does not mean that Colonel Standish was 
ignored. It was the Colonel who suggested that 
a man in the I.C.S., who had been invalided home 
after some ten years’ service in the Irrigation De- 
partment, should be engaged as engineer — a man 
who had learnt to treat any kind of soil and handle 
every kind of river; it was the Colonel who sug- 
gested that both road and bridge belonged to the 
County Authorities, and that plans should be sent in 
before ever a sod was touched; it was the Colonel 
who showed John how to approach and propitiate 
the County Surveyor; and lastly, it was the Colonel 
who had the tact to develop chronic rheumatism in 
his lower limbs as an excuse to leave John alone with 
Betty. 

Each morning the procedure was the same: the 
three would meet near the bridge, inspect the 
strengthening of the embankment with concrete and 
granite, and talk over the developments. Then 
Colonel Standish would complain of stiffness, and 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 


1 2 I 


stop for a gossip with the engineer if he were pres- 
ent, or hobble home if he were absent, whilst John 
and Betty strolled on to examine the work at the 
top of the lake. It was very important, this work 
at the lake-head; for not only had trenches to be 
sunk as guides to the depth of excavation, but John 
and Betty had also to determine how far the lake 
should be cut into the hillside, and this was an 
artistic problem which needed much deliberation. 

During these walks Peter acted as chaperon, and 
it was really extraordinary how the puppy’s manners 
were improving. From the first, he had clearly re- 
garded Tracey as his natural master; but whether 
he had come to regard Betty as someone in whom 
his master had a kind of vested interest, or whether 
he was modelling his manners on John’s is uncer- 
tain; anyhow, he was beginning to behave like a 
little gentleman. 

During these walks to the head of the lake, and 
back to Coombe Lodge — and the couple did not 
hurry — John and Betty grew to learn much of each 
other. The work in hand was serious; the making 
of the lake would have been sufficiently important 
to satisfy most persons, but (as John remarked) one 
could always unmake a lake and restore the mead- 
ows to their former appearance; the digging, cut- 


122 


BETTY STANDISH 


ting, and blasting of the hillside, however, were of 
the last importance, for one could not clap back the 
sand and stone, as though one were repairing a sand 
castle. A fine cliff, overlooking a fine lake, would 
make a fine addition to the Tracey landscape; but 
a red standstone cliff, overlooking water-meadows, 
would not be agreeably impressive. 

Now, you will find that an intimacy partakes of 
the nature of its foundation: a friendship founded 
on a seaside holiday is as unstable as the sand; a 
friendship founded on sport is apt to become a 
lifelong recreation; but an intimacy founded on 
mutual and important work is as thorough and last- 
ing as the work itself. The reason of this is 
obvious. The seaside companionship commences 
with recreation, frivol, and flirting, and when it 
drifts into personal confidences, these confidences 
are tinged with the same qualities. The friendship 
that is founded on work begins seriously, and when 
the conversation becomes personal, it is because the 
personal element has assumed more importance than 
the work itself. Thus John and Betty grew to learn 
much of each other. 

Betty learnt that there were at least three person- 
alities in John Tracey, and that these were tucked 
away inside one another like Indian puzzles. 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 123 

There was the outward and visible man, intelligent, 
courteous to his equals, strict with those under him, 
and both kind and thoughtful; underneath this— 
and kept severely in subjection — was a layer of 
idealism; and below, underlying everything, there 
was a substratum of firm decision and absolute de- 
votion to duty. The outward man was the result 
of John’s consistent practice of his ethics; the vein 
of idealism rendered him human and, when he un- 
derstood, sympathetic; the substratum made him 
very certain in his opinions and unlikely to consult 
others. 

I do not mean that Betty analysed Tracey; but 
she found that there was a certain Mr. Tracey 
whom she had known from the beginning, and who 
was always the same. As she grew to know him 
better, his idealism would sometimes crop up in the 
most pleasant way; and, every now and again, she 
would stumble across a firmness which almost 
amounted to obstinacy, and which almost frightened 
her. 

John learnt that the changing moods and occa- 
sional impudences which had marked the Betty of 
his first acquaintance, were but the ripples on the 
surface, and that the real Betty was clear and fresh 
and deep as Lake Biwa; that she was earnest, with- 


124 BETTY STANDISH 

out being serious, and that she was adorable from 
crown to sole. 

She told him, bit by bit, everything about herself, 
that is to say, everything except her engagement to 
Tom Courtenay; but since her promise bound her 
to keep this matter private, and since every woman 
must be allowed one secret, and since one reserva- 
tion must be regarded as a sort of exception to 
prove the rule of unreserved frankness, she must 
be considered to have told him all about herself. 

But it must be remembered, in justice to Betty, 
that Courtenay was a bad letter-writer, that the 
announcement of their engagement was far away 
and did not seem to be growing any nearer, and 
that the lake and the different things which Tracey 
had told her about himself (in friendship, mind you, 
and untinged with flirtation) occupied her thoughts. 

She should not have allowed Tracey to occupy 

her thoughts ? Think ! A nice man who 

had lost all belief in Christianity; a good woman, 
not more religious than most girls of her class, but 
with that inborn faith and innate reverence which 
is the natural gift of every good woman. Under 
such circumstances could any girl help planning to 
become a Good Influence? Besides, he interested 
her, and was honestly interested in all she talked 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 125 

about. He was absolutely indifferent to other girls, 
and yet his face always brightened when she ap- 
peared. He had been banished from Tracey, and 
she had been the first person of his own rank to 
welcome him home. Leaving the lake, and the 
and $ electrons out of the case, Betty would have 
been detestable if she had not thought a great deal 
about John Tracey. 

If, after the first fortnight, it occurred to Betty 
that there was more in John’s behaviour than mere, 
ordinary friendship, if it occurred to her that she 
looked forward to these mornings more than she 
looked forward to the rest of the day — Betty was 
not a fool — she put such thoughts from her. When 
we are very happy in the present, don’t we all do 
the same? 

It was Wednesday, September the twenty-third, 
and John and Betty had known each other for 
nearly three weeks, when Colonel Standish was 
overtaken by an attack of liver. This attack was 
the immediate result of the Colonel’s diplomatic 
rheumatism and the consequent lack of his accus- 
tomed exercise, and although it was not severe, it 
made him fussy and irritable. He had been as far 
as the dam, and after he had seen John and Betty 
start off on their tour of inspection he had hobbled 


126 


BETTY STANDISH 


home, for his rheumatism was really rather bad 
this morning. He had attempted to read the paper 
until the columns began to run into one another; 
he had lit a cigar, but the tobacco had tasted vile; 
he had tried the remedy of brandy-and-water, but 
the cognac had only made him feel somewhat sick. 
Then Betty came in looking aggressively fit. 

“ Congratulate me, dad! ” said she with triumph. 
“ I’ve won ! ” 

“ Won what? ” he inquired. 

“Why? Of course — the summer-house.” 

For the last fortnight, she and John had quar- 
relled over the summer-house which was to be built 
on the top of the cliff, overlooking the lake — Betty 
urging that, since most of the English summer was 
really a modified winter, the house should take the 
form of a low, thatched cottage with a wide 
veranda, large windows, and a big fireplace. And 
that morning John had acknowledged that she was 
in the right. 

Well, grunted the Colonel, “ I suppose 
you’re the one who’ll use it most.” Then he real- 
ised what he had said, and could have bitten his 
tongue off. 

“ What do you mean, dad? ” asked Betty, grow- 
ing scarlet. Only the night before, Colonel Standish 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 127 

had made a somewhat similar innuendo, and wrig- 
gled out of it. 

“ A girl must know somethin’ about summer- 
houses,” he explained vaguely, wishing that his 
bilious attack had gone and that his head was a 
little clearer. 

“ Why did you say I’d use it most? ” she asked 
relentlessly. 

“ I suppose they’ll take the most of the winter 
to make the pond — won’t they? And you’ll sit in 
the summer-house whilst Tracey’s talkin’ to the 
men? ” 

It was a very lame excuse, especially as the 
summer-house would not be commenced until the 
lake was finished, and Betty began to smooth out 
her gloves carefully. When one has been living 
in a fool’s paradise, built over a powder magazine, 
a mere spark is enough to clear away illusions; and 
she saw why Tracey, who ignored other girls, had 
not been indifferent to her; and she saw (it made 
the blood sing in her ears) that she was not indif- 
ferent to him. Also, she saw in a flash that there 
was only one honourable course for an honourable 
girl to follow. 

“ I don’t think that was what you meant,” she 
said, evenly; for it is in the nature of every woman 


128 


BETTY STANDISH 


to face a serious situation, and although she may 
grow almost hysterical over small matters, she will 
face a grave situation calmly and bravely. 

The Colonel moistened his lips, but remained 
silent. 

“ I think you meant that Mr. Tracey was in love 
with me.” 

The C.O. could not think what he should say. 
Considering that Tracey had told him his feelings 
in confidence, Colonel Standish had placed himself 
in a very false position. 

“ I had better tell you, dad, that I’m engaged 
to Tom.” 

“What!” 

“That I’m engaged to Tom Courtenay, dad.” 
Her voice was perfectly colourless, and she kept on 
smoothing her gloves. 

“Good God! ” said the Colonel, and there was 
silence. 

“ If you don’t leave off fidgeting with those 
gloves, you’ll drive me crazy!” said the Colonel. 
And then there was complete silence. 

It was not a pleasant story for a father to tell his 
daughter— there was no hint of immorality in it, 
only of extravagance; but just where an engaged 
man ought to have pulled himself together and tried 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 129 


to put his affairs straight, Courtenay had plunged 
still more wildly. The Colonel repeated no hear- 
say, he only stated such facts as came to his personal 
knowledge; he was one of the boy’s trustees until 
his twenty-fifth birthday, and he had notices of 
mortgages on the reversionary interest, life-assur- 
ance assignments, and private inquiries from gentle- 
men who signed their letters with such names as 
“ Lewis,” “ Cowen,” and “ Rosen-something.” He 
told his facts with alternate bursts of indignation 
and sympathy, and he ended: “ He must have pro- 
posed just after I told him he was ruinin’ himself! 
The — the — the — scoundrel ! ” Then his temporary 
ailment got the mastery, and he had to make an 
excuse and hurry from the room. 

He came back some twenty minutes later to find 
Betty, very white and exceedingly resolute, still wait- 
ing for him. She had been so entirely wrapped up 
in the serious problem before her, that she had 
hardly noticed her father’s indisposition. 

“ Dad,” she began, “ I know that Tom’s not be- 
haved well, but I think I ought to give him a chance 
of explaining things.” 

“ If he hasn’t economised since he asked you to 
marry him,” said the Colonel, helping himself to 
some weak brandy-and-water, “ he never will. I’ve 


130 BETTY STANDISH 

seen too much to let my daughter marry a spend- 
thrift.” 

“ I know all that, dad,” she answered gravely — 
she had been brought up in the Service, and knew 
the utter hopelessness of wastrels — “ but he ought 
to have a chance.” 

“ I shall never consent to the engagement,” he 
retorted with some fervour. “ And — I don’t think 
you’ve treated me very well, Betty.” 

“I’ve been beastly!” she cried, kneeling beside 
him. “ I’ve been beastly — and — you’ve been so aw- 
fully good to me — and ” 

The Colonel could feel her trembling, as he put 
his arms round her. 

“ You’ve been everything to me, dad,” she 
sobbed, “ — and — I’m — so — sorry.” 

“ Hush ! ” he said, stroking her cheek. 

“ No ! I won’t hush ! I ought to have made Tom 
tell you ! I ought never to have promised not to 
tell you ! ” 

“ Poor little girl,” said the Colonel, gently; and 
Betty cuddled up to him. 

“ Are you ” he asked, when Betty seemed 

more composed. “ I don’t know how to put it — 
but were you very much in love with Courtenay? ” 
He had been doing some hard thinking. Tracey 


THE COLONEL INTERVENES 


131 

appeared as a haven of rest for his daughter after 
Courtenay, and it would be a thousand pities if she 
refused him out of sentiment towards this impossi- 
ble youth. Besides, he was sufficiently wise to guess 
that Betty’s wound was not very deep. 

“ I — don’t — know,” whispered Betty. 

He smiled at her honesty. “ Are you sure he 
cares for you?” he asked. Then he added what 
he had said to Tracey: “You know you are very 
pretty, Betty, and ” 

“ Oh ! He cares — but — he — didn’t care enough 
to economise,” she added hopelessly. 

He wondered if he should give her a hint about 
Tracey, for he did not want her to be caught nap- 
ping, lest she might refuse him right off; but he 
came to the conclusion that he had interfered enough 
already. “ Well,” he said, “ you’ll write to Tom? ” 

“ I’ll go and write now,” she answered. 


CHAPTER XIII 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES 

Very few women understand that the man who is 
in financial difficulties cannot afford to economise. 
A man who has a balance at his bank, or a man 
who has just passed through the bankruptcy court — 
thus do extremes meet — can afford to cut down ex- 
penses; but let one who is hard up start selling his 
horses or reducing his establishment, and his cred- 
itors swoop down on him like a flock of vultures. 

It is true that Tom Courtenay ought to have 
taken the Colonel’s Christmas lecture to heart. It 
is true that he might have succeeded in saving some- 
thing from the coming wreck; but if Betty had 
realised that Courtenay’s apparent extravagance, 
since their engagement, had in reality been a wild 
endeavour to recoup some of his previous losses, 
and that his tandem and polo ponies had been kept 
to save appearances, she would have been less bit- 
terly disappointed. As it was, she wrote with a 
very sad heart: 

“ Dearest Tom,” she began, “ I had to tell dad 
about our engagement this morning, and he has 
132 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES i 33 

told me something that has upset me awfully. Can 
it be really true that you have spent all your capital 
since our engagement, and that you will have noth- 
ing left except your pay? I can hardly believe it! 

“ Why — I’ve managed to save nearly twelve 
pounds out of my wretched little dress allowance 
and the few ” 

This last sentence sounded rather mean, so she 
tore up the letter and began over again: 

“ Dearest Tom, — I had to tell dad about our 
engagement this morning. I will explain why when 
we meet — it is too long for a letter. 

“ You remember our talk last Christmas, after 
you asked me to marry you. You said we’d be poor 
— and I told you I did not mind it — and you said 
that you would economise ‘ like blazes ’ — those were 
the exact words you used — and that when you had 
put things straight we’d have between one hundred 
and fifty and two hundred beside your pay — and 
you asked me not to tell dad until you had got your 
affairs straight. 

“ Now I hear that you have run through every- 
thing! If dad was not so careful about what he 
says I should hardly believe it. The worst of it is 
that you don’t seem to have given up anything — 
your ponies or anything. If you do not care 
enough about me now — if you let everything slide 
and keep on spending money like this — what would 


134 


BETTY STANDISH 


it be like when we were married! You know that 
I’m not mercenary, and I would not have minded 
if it had not been your fault. I would not have 
minded so much if you had only fooled away the 
money — but you don’t seem to have given up any- 
thing for me. How can I trust you, Tom? 

“ You must not think I don’t care. I care 
awfully — and don’t think that I shan’t listen to your 
explanations. 

“ Ever your loving 

“ Betty.” 

A tear rolled down and fell flop on the letter, 
and as she was not the sort of girl to punctuate her 
letters with tear-drops, she had to write it all over 
again. Then she remembered that John Tracey 
was coming over to tea that afternoon, so she had 
to write a most unconvincing note, pleading a 
headache, and send it over by a servant. Then 
she had to bathe her eyes, and make a pretence 
of eating some lunch. Then she was able to go 
up to her room, lock the door, and give way to 
her feelings. 

There was Tom Courtenay who had behaved in 
such a way that her father could assert that he was 
not fit to marry her. There was Mr. Tracey who 
had behaved in such a way, and whom she had 
allowed to behave in such a way, that her father 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES 135 

unthinkingly hinted at their marriage. It was hate- 
ful ! — hateful ! 

It was no good to pretend that she had not en- 
couraged Mr. Tracey. She had not actually— well 
—flirted with him; and, for the matter of that, he 
had not tried to flirt with her; but is there not 
something which is still more engaging than flirta- 
tion? What was it that Mrs. Weybridge— the 
smart Mrs. Weybridge — had said only last spring? 
“ If a woman lets a man talk to her about herself, 
he may want to make love to her; but if she takes 
an interest in his work and encourages him to talk 
about himself, he will worship her.” It was true 
that she had not tried to attract him, and that she 
had encouraged him to talk about himself simply 
because he interested her; but that was no excuse— 
she ought to have understood ! 

Had she not seen Mr. Tracey’s expression when- 
ever he met her? Nay more, when she knew that 
she was going to meet him, had she not always 
looked forward to seeing a sort — well — a sort of 
happy look come into his face? She felt her cheeks 
growing hot. 

And Mr. Tracey had not said anything to her. 
He had not even given a hint that he had some- 
thing to say to her. She was just taking it for 


BETTY STANDISH 


136 

granted that he cared for her — somehow or other, 
this seemed to make things infinitely worse. And 
now all her mind was running on Mr. Tracey, and 
she was not giving poor Tom a single thought! 

If only Tom had not behaved so foolishly; if she 
could only have stuck to her engagement, confessed 
to Tom, and tried to forget about Mr. Tracey ! But 
now she could see no chance of marrying Tom 
(and to tell the truth she was grateful for this 
mercy), and she never, never, never wanted to meet 
Mr. Tracey again. 

Betty was feeling the desolation and craving for 
sympathy which sometimes comes to motherless 
girls, when there was a tap at her door, and the 
maid told her that Colonel Standish wished to see 
her in his study. 

“ Now, sit you here, Miss Standish,” said the 
Colonel, pulling round one of the easy chairs by 
the fire, so that its back was towards the light. “ I 
couldn’t eat any lunch, and I want something; so 
I’ve had some tea brought in, and I’m going to 
prescribe for you.” He poured out a cup of amaz- 
ingly strong tea, adding very little milk and sugar. 

‘‘Ever heard of the whitaroo?” inquired the 
Colonel, drawing on his higher imagination. 

“ No,” answered Betty with a wintry smile. 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES 


137 


“Ihe whitaroo’s a sort of bush rabbit,” he ex- 
plained laboriously. “ If you take it into the open, 
and put it down, it’ll run round and round after 
itself until it drops. The natives say that it’s huntin’ 
itself.” 

“Yes? ” said Betty. 

“You’ve got into a tangle, little girl; and your 
thoughts will only keep on runnin’ round till you 
drop. I’m going to tuck you up and send you off 
to sleep, Betty.” He refilled her cup with the amaz- 
ing tea. “ Might think it will keep you awake,” he 
remarked; “ but it’ll send you off like a top.” 

She took the cup of tea, stroking his hand as she 
took it. This was the sympathy she craved for. 

“ This muddle has been as much my fault as 
anyone’s,” remarked Colonel Standish, looking em- 
barrassed. “ I could see that Tracey had taken to 
you, and you seemed to like him, and I did my best 
to throw you together. In fact,” he confessed, “ I 
shammed rheumatism a bit.” 

Betty smiled. It was comforting to hear that the 
tangle was not all her fault. 

“ And now I’m paid out with an attack of liver,” 
continued the Colonel, following up his success. 

“ You dear! ” said Betty. 

“ My little girl’s got to go slow and take things 


i3» 


BETTY STANDISH 


easy until she hears from Courtenay,” he con- 
cluded. “ You can’t do anything until you have 
an answer to your letter, Betty; and it’s no good 
plannin’ ahead.” 

“ And then? ” inquired she. 

“ I’ve had enough of interferin’,” replied 
Colonel Standish, firmly; but he could not help one 
last intervention. “ I’ll tell you one thing, Betty,” 
he said gravely: “when a woman feels that she’s 
let herself get a trifle too friendly with a man — I 
mean a little more friendly than she meant to— she 
always wants to take it out of him— God knows 
why. She wants — hum — wants to send him packin’.” 

“ Y-e-s,” she answered slowly. Her father had 
exactly described her own feelings. 

“ Be g^tle with Tracey. He’s an awful decent 
chap.” 

“ Y-e-s,” answered Betty. 

He tucked her up, in spite of her protests, for 
Colonel Standish believed that rest and the equiva- 
lent to a Turkish bath are the best remedies for 
troubles, and went over to his writing-table. There 
was a gentle scratch, scratch of his pen; it grew 
fainter and fainter; and then John Tracey showed 
her the lace handkerchief as they walked up the 
valley, and she knew that she trusted him and that 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES 


i39 


the fox was not really dead; and they walked on and 
on until the cliff at the end of the valley came 
sliding down with a bright light, and Betty found 
that the servant had brought in the lamp and that 
it was time to dress for dinner. 

Now, although some proverbs are mere foolish 
platitudes, other proverbs, which are founded on 
cumulative experience, are wisdom: “It never 
rains, but it pours,” and “ Speak of the devil, and 
he is sure to appear ” — thus, if you be moved to 
speak of Jones to-day, you are certain to hear of, 
and from, Jones to-morrow. Possibly, the thought- 
energy which makes Brown write to you of Jones, 
and Jones write to you of himself, may have caused 
some kind of thought-transfer. 

Anyhow, whilst Betty and the Colonel were talk- 
ing about Courtenay’s money troubles, two letters 
concerning Courtenay’s affairs were on their way. 
The first was a letter from Postlethwaite to Tracey, 
which was delivered that morning; the second was 
addressed to Betty, and since this second letter was 
not delivered until the morrow, it may be left for 
the morrow. 

The letter from St. John Postlethwaite ran as 
follows : 


140 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Dear Old Chap, — You remember poor Court- 
enay of the Rifles — I believe he used to be rather 
a friend of yours. His son has got himself into 
the deuce of a mess, and has asked me to help him. 

“ The boy, who is in the Lowland Light Infan- 
try, seems to have mortgaged and otherwise frit- 
tered away a comfortable little fortune, and has 
ended with a wild plunge at Manchester. The re- 
sult is that he will have to find about £300 to settle 
his bets before Monday, or he’ll have to send in his 
papers. 

“ Young Courtenay is a good boy at heart, and, 
as he honestly intends to pull himself together, I 
am doing what I can to help him; but I can’t place 
my hands on the money at once. Do you mind 
sending him a cheque for £300, and I will settle 
with you in about a fortnight. 

“ He has promised to lay the matter before his 
C.O., and ask for advice. This seems the best way 
to put him straight, and it always pays to confide 
in one’s Colonel— so perhaps you had better send 
the money direct to the C.O. 

“ Etc., etc.” 

Unfortunately Postlethwaite neglected to mention 
that the Commanding Officer of the L.L.I. was an 
intimate friend of his. He also forgot to mention 
the officer s name and where the regiment was 
stationed. 


BETWEEN TWO FIRES 


141 

John Tracey read through the letter twice. Tom 
Courtenay’s father had been quite a friend of his, 
and he would do anything to oblige Postlethwaite; 
besides Betty had spoken about the boy a good 
many times and seemed to take an interest in him; 
so Tracey drew out a cheque for £400, payable to 
Thomas Courtenay or Bearer (the extra hundred 
might come in useful) and enclosed it in a letter to 
the Colonel. He mentioned that he had heard, 
from a friend of Courtenay’s, that the boy was 
going to consult his C.O. about some money diffi- 
culties, and that as he was an old friend of Court- 
enay’s father he joined in the enclosed cheque. He 
searched in vain for an Army List, and placed the 
letter on the mantelpiece until he could learn the 
address. He also wrote to Postlethwaite, telling 
him what he had done, and insisting on going 
halves. Then he received Betty’s note, and had 
plenty to think about. 

It was not that he was upset at Betty’s head- 
ache, for any healthy girl may have an occasional 
headache. It was not that he was disappointed at 
not seeing her during the afternoon; but there was 
a tone about Betty’s letter that distressed him; for 
instance, Betty had written “ I regret to say,” 
instead of “ I am sorry to say,” and altogether the 


142 


BETTY STANDISH 


letter read as though she had not wished him to 
come over that afternoon, and was making an excuse 
to put him off. 

The letter was so unlike the warm-hearted, 
friendly Betty of his acquaintance that, adding the 
epistle to the unexpected headache, he could not 
help concluding that something had upset her. As 
there had been nothing in their morning’s conver- 
sation that could possibly have offended the girl, 
he was forced to believe that some echo of gossip 
had reached her. 

However, he could do nothing until the next day, 
and he had to get through a restless and wretched 
evening as best he could. 


CHAPTER XIV 

BY THE OTTER 

As might have been expected, neither Betty nor 
John slept much that night. 

Betty had lain awake, tormenting herself with 
Courtenay’s perfidy, and wondering how she could 
avoid being alone with Tracey; whilst John had 
tossed to and fro, wondering what had so suddenly 
come between him and Betty, and resolving to force 
the game and come to an immediate understanding. 

Consequently, both rose when dawn was greying 
the sky, and both went down to listen to the Song 
of Perfect Consolation, which is the babble of the 
river. Moved by a similar impulse, both walked 
down to the pool where they had first met. 

Now I do not pretend to know why Betty 
whistled Peter, and made this particular spot the 
object of her walk — perhaps it was only because 
the path from Coombe Lodge led down to the pool 
of the speckled Thomas; but I do know that John 
let out a couple of spaniels, and went down to 
Thomas’ pool because it was the place where he 
had first met Betty. 


143 


144 


BETTY STANDISH 


John had further to go; Betty had a mass of 
back hair to arrange; therefore they reached the 
pool simultaneously. 

“Good-morning, Miss Standish!” shouted 
John. “ How’s the headache? I’m coming over! ” 

“Please don’t!” shouted back Betty, above the 
sound of the waters. “ You’ll get awfully wet, 

besides Oh! don’t,” she shouted, as John 

stepped down the bank. “ I’ll meet you at the 
bridge.” She felt that it would be much better to 
meet Tracey on the bridge, where labourers would 
be passing to their work, than to meet him in the 
water-meadows. 

He laughed joyfully, and splashed into the 
water, the dogs splashing in after him. 

“ How’s the headache? ” he repeated, wading up 
to the bank. 

She held out her hands to him, for the bank was 
steep and she could not be ungracious to him. 

“How tired you look! ” said he, scrambling on 
to the bank, and still holding her hands. 

“ Which means — that I’m looking plain,” said 
she, looking down. 

“ Which means that my little lady is looking her 
sweetest,” he answered, still holding her hands. 
“ Look at me, Betty.” 


145 


BY THE OTTER 

She looked up, and smiled sadly. 

The same God Who created the world fresh and 
new, recreates the world each morning; and those 
who live a natural life find that their thoughts are 
clearer and their motives purer in the early morning 
than they are later in the day. Anything that Betty 
had planned to say overnight was forgotten, and she 
was acting on the inspiration and impulse of the 
moment. She knew that John was going to propose, 
and she was glad that he was going to propose, 
because she meant to tell him the exact truth. She 
loosed her hands, and the two walked slowly to- 
wards the bridge. 

“ I have something to say,” began John. 

Betty nodded her head. 

He had made up his mind to win her, from the 
first; but now that he was coming to the point, he 
experienced both diffidence and compunction. Betty 
seemed miles too good for him. 

“ I’m thirty-five and you’re only twenty,” he re- 
marked, watching her. 

“ Twenty-one,” corrected Betty, softly. 

“ That makes me fourteen years older than you 
— but it isn’t that — at least, that doesn’t matter.” 
He thought a moment how to express himself. “ I 
expect you think you know me? ” 


1 46 BETTY STANDISH 

“ I’ve seen a good deal of you — lately, ’ she 
answered shyly. 

“ Well — you’ve seen me at my best — and what’s 
more, you’ve only seen me at my best. I’m a moody 
sort of a brute, sometimes — I dwell on things. And 
— we’re an awfully unlucky family to marry into. 
He stood still and faced her. 

“ Betty,” he said, “ I love you, and I’ve loved 
you since the first.” 

She wanted to answer him, but she could think 
of nothing to say. 

“Well?” he asked. 

He stood quite still, without even moving his 
hands, until she longed to scream. 

“ Have you nothing to say? ” he asked. It was 
a strange wooing, almost uncouth; but when a man 
makes love gracefully, he has had previous experi- 
ence, or else his feelings are not very deeply 
touched. 

“I love you. Don’t you understand? I love you.” 

But still she was speechless. 

“ Do you care for me? ” he asked. 

Then Betty found words. “ I do care — but — I 
never thought anything until yesterday. I ought to 
have known — but I never let myself think until yes- 
terday. I do care — and — it’s no good ” 


BY THE OTTER 


147 

He began to dig up a thistle with his walking- 
stick, and she watched him. 

“ Then — it’s no good? ” he said, drawing him- 
self up. 

“ Oh! please go on digging — you make it so dif- 
ficult for me. I can’t explain — and ” 

u Is there anyone else? ” he asked. 

“ Yes — and — no,” she answered. 

He said nothing, for what on earth could he say; 
it was like tilting against a feather-bed. Then he 
looked at Betty (do what she would, Betty could 
not keep the tears out of her eyes) and a wave of 
great pity came over him. 

“ Look here, Miss Standish ” — he had returned 
more to his old manner with her — “ your answer 
means everything to me, and I’ve let myself get 
too — I don’t know exactly what — too earnest. At 
any rate, we both care, and I’m sorry I got so ear- 
nest.” He tucked her right hand into his arm, and 
began walking towards the bridge. “ Now tell me, 
little girl,” said he, stroking her right hand with his 
left, “ have I any chance? If I haven’t, don’t mind; 
it isn’t your fault.” 

“ I liked you so much,” began Betty, “ and I 
liked being your friend, and — I never thought — 
you understand? ” 


148 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Of course,” he answered, stroking her hand. 
“ If you’d only thought, you’d have known that I 
was in love with you; but we just drifted on. It 
wasn’t your fault.” 

“ It was,” she insisted. “ A girl hasn’t any right 
to let a man devote himself to her, like I’ve let 

you, unless ” and she shrugged her shoulders. 

“ All I mean is — that I didn’t mean to do it. I 
just did it because I liked you, and I liked you liking 
me. 

They walked on some thirty yards in silence. 
“ Have I the ghost of a chance? ” asked John. “ If 
not, it won’t make any difference.” 

She stood still and withdrew her hand from his 
arm, for they were in sight of the bridge. She 
was not saying in the least what she had intended 
to say, but she had an overwhelming impulse to 
show John how much she cared. She could not 
give him a definite answer until she had heard from 
Courtenay, but she longed to give him his answer, 
and she had but little doubt what that answer would 
be. “ Can you wait till the day after to-morrow? ” 
she whispered. 

“ I can wait just as long as you like,” he said, 
smiling. If her answer should have to be “ No,” 
he did not mean her to suffer more than he could 


BY THE OTTER 


149 


help. “ And I want you to understand one 
thing,” he continued. “ I fell in Jove with you 
straight away. This last fortnight hasn’t made any 
difference to me. You have absolutely nothing to 
reproach yourself with.” 

“ Yes,” she whispered. She was longing to give 
him his answer, and now she had no doubt what 
that answer would be. 

“ If I’d found that you were a married woman 
when I brought you over the handkerchief, I should 
have been just as much in love with you as I am 
now,” he continued. “ Of course, I shouldn’t have 
shown you that I cared, but I should have loved 
you all the same. It hasn’t been my fault, or your 
fault, or anyone’s fault. It’s been fate. You’ve 
absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with. Do 
you understand? ” 

She understood his unselfishness, and she also 
understood that she could not bear to keep him in 
uncertainty. “ I — think so,” she said — but the 
tone of her voice said more, and her eyes said most 
of all. 

“ I’m glad! ” he answered, looking down instead 
of looking where he ought to have looked. 

The girl felt a chill; for no girl can do more than 
hint at the initiative, and when a girl hints at a 


BETTY STANDISH 


150 

surrender, and the man fails to notice her hint, she 
is humiliated. 

Unfortunately, John Tracey was so intent on 
doing his duty towards Betty, and so much 
wrapped up in showing her that she had no cause 
for self-reproach, that he overlooked Betty herself. 
Instead of pressing her for an explanation as he 
ought to have done, instead of putting his arm 
round her as a wiser man would have done, he 
started an oration. It was a very sincere oration, 
commencing with “ I love you too much to worry 
you, Betty,” and ending with a very honest state- 
ment of a very beautiful affection; but there are 
times when actions are golden, and words are almost 
an insult. 

As Tracey spoke, Betty felt herself getting colder 
and colder; she had been ready to yield, and he 
had not noticed it. Then she caught sight of Peter 
and burst into hysterical laughter. 

“Look! ” she cried, for there was Peter sitting 
up and watching them intently. The other two 
spaniels had gone off pottering along the river bank, 
as spaniels will; but Peter had remained to gaze 
with absorbed interest. 

“ I’ve bungled! ” thought Tracey to himself; but 
how he had bungled, he could not exactly see. 


CHAPTER XV 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 

An application of cold water to the eyes, a touch 
of eau-de-Cologne to the forehead, removed all 
trace of Betty’s emotions, and she came down to 
breakfast looking pale and tired, but otherwise 
normal. She kissed her father, poured out his 
coffee, and proceeded to turn over the small pile of 
letters that lay beside her plate. The first one that 
caught her eye was addressed in Tom Courtenay’s 
bold handwriting. 

Betty read her letter through, gulped down some 
coffee and read it through again more carefully. “ I 
think you ought to see this, dad,” she said, with a 
catch in her voice. 

“ Read it aloud,” suggested the Colonel, helping 
himself to kidneys. 

“ Darling Old Betty,” she began, “ I’m afraid 
this will be rather upsetting ” 

She passed the letter across the breakfast-table. 
“ I can’t read it aloud,” she said. “ It’s from Tom, 


BETTY STANDISH 


152 

and ’’—she tried to smile— “ it is rather upsetting.” 

Colonel Standish fumbled for his eyeglasses and 
continued : 

“ But I am in a beastly hole and I don’t see my 
way out of it unless you can suggest something. 
I got into debt when I first joined the regiment, 
borrowed money, speculated, and generally made 
an ass of myself. The long and short of it is that 
after we got engaged I had a regular flutter to try 
and get back what I had dropped, and unless I can 
raise three hundred by Monday I shall have to send 
in my papers. I saw Postlethwaite and asked him 
if he could help me. He said he would do what 
he could, but I have heard nothing more from him, 
and I must find the money at once.” 

“ Don’t read the rest aloud, dad,” broke in Betty. 
“ I can’t quite stand it.” 

“ I’m at my wits’ end, old girl,” continued the 
Colonel to himself, “ and I don’t see how I can 
possibly raise the money. If I can only pull 
through this, I shall start reading for the Staff 
College and try and get a billet in India, and then 
you can come out to me. But I can’t get the money 
unless you can suggest something. You understand 
I should not worry you unless I was at my wits’ end. 

“ You seem to be great friends with Tracey ” 
(“Whew! ” whistled the Colonel), “ at least so I 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 153 

gather from your letters, and he used to be a great 
friend of my father’s. If he would only lend me 
£300 until I can straighten things out, I would 
pay it back as soon as ever I could — that is in a few 
weeks. 

“ I hardly like to suggest this, but I can’t think 
of anything else. If you could only sound Tracey 
and explain things. You might even read him my 
letter, leaving out the bit about our engagement 
If he won’t find the money I’m gone in. Three 
hundred would not matter to him, and I’d pay it 
back almost at once. 

“ I would write to him myself, but it would be so 
awfully difficult to explain everything and my head 
is feeling awfully stupid.” 

“ You needn’t read any more, dad,” remarked 
Betty, as the Colonel turned over the last page. 
“ It’s — it’s only sentiment,” she added bitterly. 

Giving one glance at his daughter’s face, 
Colonel Standish handed back the letter and kept 
silence. When Colonel Standish, D.S.O., has to 
answer for his life, this smothering of a fiery 
temper for Betty’s sake will count in his favour. 

“ I suppose this ends it,” said the Colonel, 
pushing away his plate and taking out his cigar- 
case. Betty had given up any pretence of eating 
some time before. 


154 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ I suppose so,” she assented. 

“You won’t understand all I mean, Betty; but 
you’ll understand enough for practical purposes.” 
He inhaled a lungful of smoke, as though his cigar 
were only a cigarette. “ Young Courtenay’s en- 
gaged to you, and he wants you to use your influ- 
ence with Tracey to borrow money — Tracey’s a 
decent chap — well and good. You marry him and 
go to India, and he’ll expect you to use your influ- 
ence with the gods at Simla to get him a billet — 
rakish old general — pretty girl — billet for her hus- 
band — quid pro quo — damn! ” he ended. 

“ I — think — I — know what you mean, dad.” 

“ I’m quite sure you don’t,” he answered, “ at 
least not all that I mean. But you understand that 
no honourable man can ask favours from other men 
through a pretty wife. Tracey wouldn’t have 
thought of doing it.” 

He roused himself and went round to Betty. 
This letter had taken the starch out of him. It 
opened such awful possibilities to a man who knew 
India. He realised that he was getting on in life, 
and he longed to feel that his daughter was safely 
provided for. “ I can’t tell you how sorry I am 
for you, Kiddie,” he said, putting his arm round 
her neck. “ I’m gettin’ an old man — mind, I 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 155 

shan’t own it to-morrow — and I want to leave my 
daughter happy. You’re the dickens of a lot to me, 
Betty.” 

I met Mr. Tracey — this morning,” she whis- 
pered. 

The Colonel stroked her hair sympathetically. 

“ And — I said I’d tell him the day after to- 
morrow.” 

“Please God you’ll say ‘yes’!” The Colonel 
straightened himself, for the news made him feel 
almost young again. 

“ I — think so,” whispered Betty. 

“ Go for a walk! Thank God! Go for a walk, 
Betty,” said the Colonel, excitedly. “ You want 
fresh air to blow away the cobwebs. Go up on 
Coombe Downs, and take Peter with you; and, 
mind, you’re not to think about anything until you 
come back. Then we’ll have a stroll together.” 

He caught her up, kissed her, and bundled her 
out of the room. Then he rang for a small glass 
of brandy, lit a fresh cigar, and muttered: “ Thank 
God!” 

Now Coombe Downs were created when the 
world was young, great rolling downs covered with 
heath and crowned with pine-trees, catching the sea 
breezes and carrying the high road to Dorchester. 


i 5 6 BETTY STANDISH 

No healthy headache in the world could live one 
hour on Coombe Downs. So when, at the end of 
one hour, Betty seated herself on the stump of a 
fallen pine-tree, she was herself again. 

She whistled to Peter, and when the spaniel put 
his paws on her lap and looked up in her face, she 
began to talk to him as wise girls talk to spaniels 
and mothers talk to their babies. 

“ IVe been engaged to a man who’s behaved 
awfully badly, Peter,” said she, gravely. The dog 
licked her hand, because he could see that his mis- 
tress was troubled. u He has run through dll his 
money, Peter, and now he wants me to borrow 
more from Mr. Tracey. Isn’t it horrid ?” Peter 
gave a low growl. He was probably inspired by 
the tone of Betty’s voice. 

“ Shall I throw him over, Peter, and marry your 
master? He wants me to.” The puppy wagged 
the stump of a tail. “ Then you and I and Mr. 
Tracey and all the other little red spaniels will 
make a sort of happy family,” she continued. 

“ Now, I want to talk to you really seriously, 
Peter, because you’re the only person I can trust 
absolutely.” Betty picked up the dog and sat him 
upright on her knee. 

“ Now, if I gave Tom his conge and married 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 


i57 


Mr. Tracey, do you think we’d be happy together, 
you and I and Mr. Tracey and all the other little 
red spaniels and Peter the peacock?” Betty knew 
that she was talking nonsense, but Peter licked her 
chin in a most reassuring way. 

She stroked him gently, and Peter gradually set- 
tled himself for a nap, whilst Betty sank into a deep 
meditation. She had to determine her life, once 
and for all. 

She could not marry Tom Courtenay, that was 
certain. She could not possibly marry a man who 
asked her to borrow money from another man with 
whom she was friendly. Her own instinct told her 
this even more strongly than her father’s experi- 
ence. She would write and break off the engage- 
ment the moment she got home. 

Then, what should she say to Mr. Tracey? She 
like him immensely. She respected him. She 
thought that she would be happy with him. But did 
she love him? That was the question. She blushed 
to herself, and smiled at herself, for had not she 
half-expected him to kiss her down by the river, 
when she had told him that she understood? And, 
to face the matter honestly — she could not afford to 
make a second mistake, and again engage herself 
to a wrong man — had not she been mortified be- 


i5« 


BETTY STANDISH 


cause he had not kissed her? Why should she feel 
ashamed? No man could love a girl more des- 
perately and more delicately than he loved her. 

Her face went into wicked dimples. He loved 
her, and she loved him, and she would make him 
pay for his diffidence after she had accepted 
him. 

“ Peter! Peter! I’ll marry your master,” she said, 
shaking the puppy; and Peter, waking up, wagged 
his tail wildly. 

“ We’ll try to be good to him; and he’ll be aw- 
fully good to us, Peter.” 

“ He will ! ” wagged Peter. 

“ He’ll be kind to you and me and the peacock 
and all the little red spaniels, Peter.” 

“ Infernally kind ! ” wagged Peter. 

“ And I think I shall love him, Peter, just as 
much as he loves you and me.” 

The puppy jumped down, and ran round Betty, 
barking. 

“ Now let us look at things squarely in the face, 
you and I, Peter.” Peter sat down before her, 
lolling out his tongue. 

“ I don’t think I could have been very much in 
love with Tom, nor he with me: do you, doggikins? 
Because, if he had been very much in love with 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 


159 


me, he wouldn’t have wasted his money, and if 
I’d been very much in love with him I should be 
heart-broken. I expect a lot of it was sentiment; 
don’t you, wee red doggie? ” 

“ Love’s young dream,” looked Peter. 

“ Exactly! ” said Betty. 

For some reason or other, the little red dog held 
up one paw for Betty to take. 

“ Between you and me and this pine log, Peter, 
don’t you think that Mr. Tracey was a little foolish 
this morning? I saw you looking, and I knew what 

you thought. He might have ” and she kissed 

the top of Peter’s head. “ I believe you want me 
to marry Mr. Tracey, Peter.” 

“ He’s awfully good to spaniels,” looked Peter. 

“ And you think he’ll be good to Betty 
Standish? ” asked she. 

“ I saw him hold your hand this morning,” 
smiled Peter. 

“ Hush ! ” said Betty. 

“ And if you’ll only learn to retrieve,” blinked 
Peter with confidence, “ and hunt out ground game, 
he’ll pat your head and stroke your back. You’ve 
no idea how nice it is to have your head patted, 
Betty.” 

“Oh! you bad little dog!” she cried, and 


i6o 


BETTY STANDISH 


catching him up in her arms, she ran down the hill, 
to Peter’s huge delight. 

Making a detour so as to avoid Coombe Ottery, 
where half the country-side would be shopping, 
Betty reached home without meeting anyone; and 
then, as she turned into the drive, she almost ran 
into John Tracey. 

“ Don’t look surprised. I only walked over to 
leave some partridges,” he explained. 

“ But I thought ” said she, chin in air. She 

was all the woman now, confident in both herself 
and him. 

“ Oh ! I’m playing the game all right,” he 
answered, smiling. “ I didn’t even ask after you. 
You won’t see anything of me till the day after 
to-morrow.” 

“ Since we have met,” she suggested — for she 
could not help noticing that he was looking worn — 
“ you might see me up the drive.” 

They walked together without conversation, until 
they reached the hall-door. 

“ If I may give some advice, Mr. Tracey,” said 
Betty, holding out her hand, “ and if you should 
happen to go for a walk before breakfast to-mor- 
row ” 

“ Yes?” said John. 


A SMALL RED SPANIEL 161 

“ Don’t wade the river, but go round by the 
bridge.” She freed her hand, and opened the hall- 
door. “ And,” continued she, stepping into the 
house, “ try Thomas’ pool.” 

“ But ” stammered John Tracey. 

She flashed a smile at him, closed the door, and 
left him dazed. 


CHAPTER XVI 


AN IMPORTANT LETTER 

A letter which breaks off an engagement is, under 
no circumstances, an easy letter to write; but when 
a girl has to announce, in the same letter, her en- 
gagement to another man, the task becomes ap- 
palling. The wisest course that a girl could pursue 
would be ( a ) to state her reason for the termination 
of the first engagement, (b) to make it perfectly clear 
that she loved the second man far more than ever 
she loved the first; but this is a counsel of perfection 
that no maiden could be expected to follow. 

Betty’s case was further complicated because she 
could not explain (a) the enormity of Tom’s offence 
in asking her to use her personal influence with 
Tracey so that he might lend Tom the desired 
money, nor could she explain ( b ) that she had un- 
thinkingly fallen in love with Tracey before she had 
thought of breaking off her engagement with her 
first lover; so she wrote: 

“ Coombe Lodge, Coombe Ottery. 

“ 24 th September , 1908. 

“ My Dear Tom, — I am not going to say any- 
thing about your letter asking me to persuade Mr. 

162 


AN IMPORTANT LETTER 


163 

Tracey, with whom you knew that, I was very 
friendly, to lend you the three hundred pounds. 
If you cannot understand what you have done I 
cannot explain.” 

She could not explain! How could she explain 
such a matter both clearly and delicately? Tom 
must see for himself. 

“ This is a frightfully difficult letter to write, for 
Mr. Tracey has asked me to marry him — of course 
he knew nothing about our engagement — and I 
intend to consent.” 

She bit the end of her pen — it was a frightfully 
difficult letter to write! It would be brutal to say 
that she loved John Tracey far more than she could 
ever have loved Tom Courtenay. He must read 
between the lines. 

“ Mr. Tracey is one of the kindest and best men 
I have ever met, and dad thoroughly approves of 
the engagement. 

“ It seems brutal to tell you this, especially now, 
but it is better that you heard it from me than from 
anyone else. — Yours ever, 

“ Betty L. Standish.” 

In one sense, this letter of Betty’s was very tact- 
ful, for she neither gushed with one breath and 


BETTY STANDISH 


164 

told Courtenay of her engagement with the next, 
nor did she refer to her feelings towards Tracey; 
in another sense, the letter was undiplomatic, for 
she failed to state any definite reason why she had 
broken off the engagement, and neglected to hint 
that her new engagement was one of the heart as 
well as one of the hand. 

By the same post, Tracey sent his cheque for 
£400 to the Colonel of the Lowland Light Infantry. 

The same gods of chance who delight in making 
zero turn up three consecutive times at Monte 
Carlo, manage our postal arrangements. They 
have a keen, though cruel, sense of humour, and 
they are never so happy as when they can place 
“ horror on horror’s head ” and pile up the agony. 

Betty’s letter and Tracey’s cheque formed a 
pretty combination on which to build up false de- 
ductions. 


CHAPTER XVII 


ACROSS THE RIVER 

The morning was cold enough to warrant the use 
of furs; furs are very becoming — so Betty took out 
her sables, clothed herself in a warm, home-spun 
dress, put on a pair of absurdly small shooting 
boots, and went out to keep her tryst. 

So far, the girl had not fallen in love with John 
Tracey in the same way that he had fallen in love 
with her. It is true that she cared for him, cared 
for him sufficiently to make the woman’s great ven- 
ture of faith and take him for better or worse, but 
she did not yet love him with any of that immense, 
self-sacrificing affection which her nature was capa- 
ble of supplying. 

Tracey loved the girl as much as a man could 
love a woman; Betty was like the sleeping princess 
of the fairy tale, waiting for the kiss which should 
bring her to life. Few men understand in the least 
what the first lover’s kiss means to a girl — no man 
can hope to understand the secret in its entirety — 
and the Intimate School of Lady Novelists is so 
165 


BETTY STANDISH 


166 

deeply engaged in describing illicit amours that it 
cannot find time to unfold the mystery of love that 
is both sweet and pure. The first time a girl sur- 
renders herself, to find a lover’s arms round her and 
his lips on hers, is an awakening; and, what is more, 
it is that particular Sacrament of Nature which 
changes the girl into the woman, and the friend into 
the sweetheart. It must be realised that Betty had 
become engaged to Tom Courtenay on the last day 
of his long leave, that they had only met for a 
week in town during the Season, and that the 
woman in her was still unawakened. 

She followed the path through the first meadow; 
then, just before the pathway curved into the 
straight, some whim moved her to make a detour 
and peep through the hedge. John Tracey was 
waiting for her, standing exactly where she had 
first met him, with his eyes fixed on the pathway. 

He looked strong and big, and she felt glad that 
she was not engaging herself to a boy. All the 
same, she found herself bound to hark back and 
walk down the pathway in a more seemly manner; 
to pop over the hedge or appear round the gate- 
post would be as unseemly as to attempt a game of 
forfeits with a bishop, or to play peep-bo with St 
Paul’s Cathedral. 


ACROSS THE RIVER 


167 

Then, as John saw her and hurried forward to 
meet her, her sense of propriety vanished, and her 
natural impudence reasserted itself. “You’ve 
waded that river again,” said she, “ and I asked 
you to come round by the bridge.” 

“Oh?” he answered, taking her hands and 
looking at her as if he could eat her. 

“Yes I I’ve a right to scold,” she continued. 
“ What shall I do when you get old and rheu- 
matic? ” Thus she gave her answer, without keep- 
ing him in suspense. 

He dropped her hands, and, putting his arm 
round her shoulders, kissed her tenderly on the 
forehead. 

It was very beautiful, this sealing of the be- 
trothal, and showed a deal of reverence; but un- 
fortunately, the Colonel sometimes kissed his daugh- 
ter in exactly the same way, and although John’s 
kiss might have shown idealism and devotion, it 
was not very natural. What would Polly Wilcox, 
the dairymaid, have thought if her young man had 
treated her like this? And Polly Wilcox and Betty 
Standish were “ sisters under their skins.” All said 
and done, John’s embrace was horribly paternal; 
and the small demon, who had whispered to Betty 
on Coombe Downs, that John was too diffident, 


1 68 


BETTY STANDISH 


repeated his whispering. Thus John Tracey lost 
his second chance. 

His clasp tightened; it loosened; his arm was 
round her neck, and he had put her head on his 
shoulder so that her forehead rested against his 
cheek. Her face flushed a dull scarlet. 

Then it flashed on her, all in a second, that she 
had not heard from Tom Courtenay breaking off 
their engagement — that he could not even have re- 
ceived her letter — that she was not yet 

Then Tracey’s left hand raised her chin, and his 
lips bent down towards hers — and — with the ghost 
of a struggle — she whispered: “ Don’t! ” Her chin 
was released, and her face snuggled back into its 
place of safety. 

“ Not — yet — please,” she whispered. 

She heard John laugh happily. Of course he 
knew nothing about her engagement to Tom Court- 
enay, and attributed her reluctance to maidenly 
shyness. 

“ It’s — so — new ” she whispered, “ and I 

hadn’t thought of you like that.” She had not the 
least intention of deceiving him, but her words fitted 
in with his thoughts. 

Then, before she could even say “ Oh! ” she was 
caught up in his arms; with a slide and a splash 


ACROSS THE RIVER 169 

he was in the water, and she felt herself being 
carried across the Otter. 

“ What are you doing? ” she cried. 
u Carrying you home,” he answered. “ Now 
I’ve got you, I’m going to keep you.” 

She gave a soft little laugh, for she liked this 
new phase in John Tracey; it appealed to her. 

“I’ve waited long enough for you!” said 
Tracey. 

“ Nearly three weeks? ” suggested she. 

“No! Years and years! ” he insisted gloomily. 
“ I’ve waited at least seven years since yesterday 
morning.” 

“ You might have asked my leave, Mr. Tracey. 
You — don’t give me much chance.” 

“ I don’t mean to ! And how dare you call me 
4 Mr. Tracey’?” 

“What can I call you? You’re too — too august 
to be called ‘ Jack ’; I don’t like — I mean — John is 
so awfully serious.” 

“ I’m afraid it’ll have to be John — plain John.” 

“ But you’re not plain — John,” laughed she. 

“ You’re — only homely.” 

What could he do? He just swung her round as 
though she were a baby, until his face was above 
hers. 


BETTY STANDISH 


170 

‘Oh, don’t!” she pleaded. Perhaps she would 
not have minded if he had, but she was bound to 
insist on her scruple about Tom Courtenay. 

He laughed down at her. Then he kissed, first 
one eye, then the other. Then he put her down as 
carefully as though she were a piece of Venetian 
glass, for they had crossed the water-meadows and 
had reached the short, springy turf of the park. 

“ Let’s take hands and run,” said Betty, joyously, 
for the New Song was beginning to sing in her 
heart, the $ was becoming conscious of the <£, and 
she had crossed the river in more senses than one. 
They caught hold of hands and ran up the park like 
a couple of children. 

They went up the steps and on to the terrace, 
then Betty stopped and slipped her hand into 
Tracey’s arm. “ Pm frightened,” she said. “ Pm 
not a bit frightened of you — I never was frightened 
of you; but when I took you, I took all this. Don’t 
you see, John, Pm marrying those awful pillars, 
and the huge house, and all your servants, and all 
your people, and they’re all Catholics and I know 
nothing about Catholics.” 

“ I’ll do everything I can to make things easy 
for you, sweetheart,” he answered. 

“But you can’t! No one can! It will depend 


ACROSS THE RIVER 


171 

on me whether the household’s a happy one, and 
whether people like coming here. Then there’s the 
chaplain! I suppose he’ll live here like he did in 
your father’s time.” 

“Lord!” ejaculated Tracey, “I’d forgotten all 
about the chaplain, and the new one comes to- 
morrow. He comes fresh from the seminary! Do 
you understand what that means, Betty Standish? ” 

“ No ! ” smiled Betty. 

“Oh! you needn’t laugh! You’ll find out all 
about it when you’re Mrs. Tracey. It means,” he 
continued grimly, “ that he won’t have learnt to 
give and take; that he’ll bring the atmosphere of the 
seminary with him and look at everything from a 
clerical standpoint; that he’ll bring an incongruous 
element into our household ! There’s only one way 
out of it: we shall have to build a church and pres- 
bytery at Coombe Ottery.” 

“ I shall have to sign my letters ‘ Tracey,’ ” said 
Betty, dreamily, continuing her previous train of 
thought — she could trust John to manage about the 
chaplain. “ Shall I sign them ‘ Elizabeth Lucrezia 
Tracey,’ or ‘Betty Tracey’? I think ‘Betty 
Tracey’ sounds more important; it’s like ‘Edward 
Rex.’ ” 

“ You spring the chaplain on me, then you talk 


1 72 BETTY STANDISH 

about your signature in the same breath — you’re in- 
consequent, madam! It comes of getting engaged 
fasting. Let’s have some tea, Betty; and I’ll walk 
back with you. I’ll even stay to breakfast if you’ll 
ask me.” 

They went into the dining-room, and John 
ordered tea. 

“ I think,” said Betty, going from one portrait 
to another (most of the pictures showed tall, grave 
men, and several of them were remarkably like 
John), “that I shall be rather proud of being a 
Tracey. And,” she added demurely, making a cau- 
tious move away from her lover, “ I am not certain 
that I shall mind being Mrs. John Tracey. Hush ! ” 
she whispered. “ Can’t you hear those grapes call- 
ing us?” She crossed quickly to the breakfast- 
table. 

The man followed her and, throwing himself on 
an easy chair, put one knee forward and his hand 
round the girl’s waist. Betty clutched at a bunch 
of black Hamburghs, as a drowning man is said 
to catch at a straw, and the girl and grapes came 
backwards gently on to his knee in saucy confusion. 
They heard the dining-room door opening; there 
was a violent struggle from Betty, a quick lift from 
John, and Betty stood firmly on her feet; her sauci- 


ACROSS THE RIVER 


173 

ness had vanished and her face was like unto an 
egg — only it was an egg that had been dyed red 
for Easter. Then Gill came in. 

Thus John Tracey wooed and won Betty Standish ; 
and, although there was a certain crudeness and 
lack of experience in his methods, there was a mas- 
terful chivalry that more than atoned; and, although 
he had sufficient wisdom to refrain from further 
liberties, he felt Betty’s hand steal into his as they 
walked down the drive. 

An engagement ought to be a solemn matter, and 
John took his betrothal very seriously. He might 
have lost all his other belief in the Roman Catholic 
doctrines, but he still retained his belief in marriage, 
and a betrothal was only one degree less binding 
than marriage; for if it takes two to make a mar- 
riage and the marriage is binding till death, it takes 
two to make a betrothal and a betrothal can only 
be dissolved by mutual consent. To state his belief 
clearly: he held that he and Betty had promised to 
marry each other; this promise could be dissolved 
by mutual consent, but, unless Betty loosed John 
from his promise and he loosed Betty from hers, 
neither would be free to look (or marry) elsewhere. 
Those who believe that a man may kiss and pet a 
girl, and then throw her over with the comfortable 


174 


BETTY STANDISH 


assurance that no nice girl will bring an action for 
breach of promise, or those who believe that a girl 
may play fast and loose with a man, will regard 
this view as a Popish heresy; but those who believe 
in honour and the keeping of a solemn promise will 
accept it as only reasonable. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AT COOMB E LODGE 

The party at Coombe Lodge had finished their 
breakfast. Betty had picked up her letters and left 
the room, ostensibly to see after her household 
duties, and Tracey and Colonel Standish were left 
alone. The Colonel had behaved with admirable 
tact, expressing just sufficient genuine surprise at the 
news of the engagement (he had not expected Betty 
to consent until she had heard from Courtenay) 
and unfeigned pleasure. 

“ There are two things I want to arrange with 
you, sir,” said John, as the Colonel handed him a 
box of cigarettes: “ the first is the settlement.” 

“ You understand that I shall have next to noth- 
ing to leave, Tracey? ” 

“ So you told me, sir, and I don’t intend to make 
any settlement — I don’t believe in settlements.” 

“ Nor do I — much,” answered the Colonel, some- 
what doubtfully. 

“ If I were to settle money on Betty, her children 
and her children’s children, and then there was an 
almighty smash-up, Betty would probably have to 
175 


BETTY STANDISH 


176 

raise money on her life interest in the settlement, 
and the very person that the settlement was intended 
to benefit would be out of it. Besides who knows 
what duties one’s grandchildren might have to pay? 
There may be a dozen new succession duties by 
then. With the present socialistic movement, only 
the fool will mortgage the future.” 

Colonel Standish began to blow smoke rings like 
a foolish boy — no one can enjoy a cigarette whilst 
he is blowing rings — and to wonder what was com- 
ing next. He felt the justice of what John was 
saying, and yet he did not like to think that his 
daughter would be dependent on her husband. 

“ What I propose to do,” continued John, “ is 
to make over a sum in first-class securities to Betty; 
the interest must be enough to pay for her frocks or 
a new horse, if she wants one. When I die every- 
thing will come to Betty and the children; there was 
no direct heir, so my father and I cut off the entail. 
I think that will be all right, won’t it, sir? ” 

“ It’s generous ! ” 

“ If one trusts a girl enough to trust her with 
one’s honour, it’s not much to trust her with a few 
thousands; besides it’ll teach Betty how to manage 
money. I can’t live for ever. That brings me to 
the second thing I want to ask you, sir.” 


AT COOMBE LODGE 


177 

“Fire away!” laughed Colonel Standish. 
“You’re doin’ all the talkin’.” 

“ Do you mind how soon we’re married, Colonel? 
You see, I’m thirty-five, and time counts.” 

“ That’s for you and Betty to arrange. I shan’t 
interfere.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” Tracey lit a fresh cigarette, 
and smoked meditatively for some seconds; but 
he was excited and wanted to talk. “ I wonder 
how the Japanese manage about settlements,” he 
remarked. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know.” Now that there was 
an actual prospect of losing Betty, the Colonel was 
inclined to be silent. 

“ I should imagine that when a Japanese married, 
he’d settle his grandson’s earnings on the soul of 
his grandfather, or something of the sort.” Then 
he laughed at himself: “What nonsense I’m talk- 
ing, sir. I think I’d better go and find Betty.” But 
Miss Standish was none so easy to find. 

The housekeeping had been an excuse: the real 
motive that had inspired Betty to leave the break- 
fast-table, as soon as she could, lay in a large, 
square envelope addressed in a bold, scrawling hand- 
writing. She locked her bedroom door, and tore 
open the envelope. 


i7» 


BETTY STANDISH 


It was a pathetic letter, almost violent in its self- 
accusation. Courtenay began by saying that he had 
only thought of Tracey as a man who had been his 
father’s friend, and (as he supposed) his contem- 
porary. It had just struck him that his father 
was a comparatively young man, and that he had 
asked Betty to do what no girl could possibly do. 
(He had not, of course, received Betty’s second 
letter when he wrote this.) He was writing at once 
to ask her forgiveness. (It had not struck the boy 
that this letter would miss the through connection 
between Scotland and Devonshire.) He had prom- 
ised Postlethwaite to see his C.O. and he would 
see his Colonel the moment he could, and find out 
exactly what could be done; then he’d get leave on 
urgent private affairs, and lay everything before 
Colonel Standish. He would sell his traps and try 
for the Staff College; he would work and work 
until he had made a home for Betty — and so on for 
eight pages. 

The letter made Betty feel suffocated and, phys- 
ically, rather sick. She knew, now, that she loved 
Tracey with all her heart and that she had never 
cared for Tom Courtenay in the way that a girl 
should care for the man she is going to marry; she 
also suspected that he had not cared for her in the 


AT COOMBE LODGE 


179 


right kind of way. She had made a frightful mis- 
take in giving Tracey his answer before she had 
definitely broken with Courtenay, but this did not 
in any way alter her promise to John Tracey. The 
only thing for her to do was to tell Tracey about 
her engagement to Courtenay. Strange to say, 
Betty was so taken up with the idea that what she 
had to say might pain her lover, and take the gilt 
off his happiness, that she had but little pity to 
spare for Courtenay. 

Now the situation was of some interest, and the 
manner in which it must have struck the persons 
who were most deeply involved is of some impor- 
tance. Colonel Standish must have regarded a 
secret engagement, entered into when his daughter 
was a minor and without his knowledge, as no en- 
gagement; he must have regarded Courtenay’s con- 
duct as a valid reason for terminating all pretence 
of an engagement; but he would probably have 
advised his daughter to wait for Courtenay’s letter 
before she accepted Tracey. 

Betty would probably have held the ordinary 
English idea that when there is a valid reason, a 
girl has every right to break off her engagement, 
and Courtenay had certainly given her a valid 
excuse. She certainly realised that she ought to 


180 BETTY STANDISH 

have been off with the old love before she was on 
with the new. 

What Tracey would have thought, if he had 
known about the matter, must be mere conjecture. 
If the Colonel’s view had been put before him, he 
would probably have seen its justice; he would 
also, in all human probability, have added that the 
promise, made by a girl of twenty without her 
father’s knowledge, was ultra vires ; that she had 
no more right to make such a promise than he had 
to promise a lock of her hair to Captain Middleton; 
and that, unless Betty renewed her promise after 
she came of age, it was null and void. If the case 
had been stated wrongly, and Tracey had been in 
a pedantic, duty-at-any-cost mood, goodness only 
knows what view he might have taken. John Tracey 
could be very obstinate and very self-centred; and, 
when he was in an obstinate humour, his Tracey 
firmness, combining with his mother’s gentleness, 
made him like an eider-down cushion, which can 
neither be smashed with a mace nor cut through with 
a sword. 

Betty looked out of her bedroom window and saw 
Tracey walking up and down the lawn; as she 
watched him, the difficulty of the situation occurred 
to her. What she would have to say amounted to 


AT COOMBE LODGE 


1 8 1 


this: “I was engaged to another man all the time 
that I was spending my mornings with you, and 
all the time that you were falling in love with me. 
I only broke off this engagement after you had 
proposed to me.” Then, the reason why she broke 
off the engagement would put Tom Courtenay in 
an unjustly bad light (she did not consider this — 
much) and it would be an embarrassing explanation 
to make to the man she was just engaged to — and 
this latter thought affected her a good deal. She 
was still resolved to tell John Tracey, but her reso- 
lution weakened as she went into the garden. She 
would begin by stating her position as an imaginary 
case, and then work up to the actualities. 

She waited until he had taken the turn away from 
the house, and, walking quickly and quietly after 
him, slipped her hand into his arm. 

“ I want to ask you something,” she said, before 
he could get a word in. “No! You mustn’t say 
anything till you’ve heard me. Suppose a girl had 
been engaged — and she got engaged to another man 
— ought she to tell him all about everything? She 
ought, oughtn’t she?” Betty thought she had 
stated her supposed case clearly. John naturally 
imagined that some space of time had elapsed be- 
tween the two engagements. He thought a minute. 


i 82 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ I don’t believe so,” he answered. “ In the first 
place there would be no need for the girl to pain 
herself; in the second place the man might dwell 
on what she told him afterwards. If there hap- 
pened to be a tiff, he might get foolishly jealous. 

I don’t believe confessions between engaged people 
are wholesome.” 

“ B ut — I’d — like to tell you something — I ought 
to.” 

He knew the girl far too well to imagine for a 
second that there could be anything that was 
morally wrong, and he did not wish to have their 
engagement-day spoilt by a confession which might 
make both of them slightly uncomfortable. 
“ Everything that happened before we met doesn’t 
count,” he insisted. “ I refuse to hear about any- 
thing that happened. Besides, I’ve something far 
more important to talk about. How soon can you 
marry me, Betty? ” 

“ Oh! ” she said. He was going ahead quickly! 
She forgot all about her confession and Tom 
Courtenay. 

“ We couldn’t be married in a Catholic church, 
and you wouldn’t like to be married in a registry 
office, would you? ” 

“ No! ” she answered with decision. 


AT COOMBE LODGE 


183 

“ The Traceys have always been Catholics, and 
it would hurt my people terribly if we were married 
in the Protestant church at Coombe Ottery.” 

She nodded her head, for she could see his point. 

“ The only thing is to be married privately in 
some London church.” 

Again she nodded her head, for this was the 
obvious way out of the difficulty. 

“ Now, suppose our engagement were an- 
nounced; suppose we were engaged for several 

months ” His appeal to Betty’s reason, just as 

though she were a man and not his sweetheart, was 
distinctive of Tracey; so was the calm way in which 
he broke off his argument in order to light a 
cigarette. “ If our engagement were announced, 
how on earth could we slip away and be married 
privately in town? Our positions — everything — 
would demand that we should be married here; and 
it is not even as if you had some real relation in 
London.” 

“ It’s frightfully awkward ! ” sighed Betty. She 
was growing very weary of complications. 

“Think of the gossip! If we said we were 
going up to London to be married privately, all the 
neighbourhood would be mad with curiosity, and 
someone would be sure to guess the true reason.” 


184 


BETTY STANDISH 


u I believe,” said Betty, thoughtfully, u it would 
be almost better to be married here than to slip off 
and get married. It would look — you won’t mind 
me saying it, John — it would look as though you 
were running away.” 

“ It would, Betty. But suppose no one knew 
about our engagement until they saw the announce- 
ment of our wedding; and suppose we came home 
from our honeymoon with a splash and a dash. 
There would be a nine days’ wonder, and people 
would smile at our eccentricity.” 

A look of relief came into Betty’s face. “ After 
all,” she remarked, “ it only means that we shall 
have to keep our engagement secret.” 

Tracey stared at the toes of his boots, wondering 
at the innocence which made such an idea seem 
possible: for a man to be continually with a girl, 
and then to marry her suddenly and privately, 
would suggest nothing short of a scandal. “ I can’t 
explain,” he said, u but we must either be engaged 
in the usual way and be married in the Parish 
Church; or else we must be married privately almost 
at once.” 

“ I can’t see why,” protested Betty, wearily. 

“ If John Tracey came home from Japan, and 
fell so desperately in love with Betty Standish that 


AT COOMBE LODGE 


185 

he persuaded her to marry him within three weeks, 
and then the couple came back to Tracey and took 
their places in the county — it would be a romance! ” 

“ And the idea of being married at Coombe 
Ottery is quite impossible? ” 

“ I’m afraid so, Betty. My giving up my religion 
must pain the Tracey people; but if I was married 
in the Protestant church at Coombe Ottery — mar- 
riage is an awfully solemn sacrament to Catholics 
— they’d feel that I’d turned my back on them alto- 
gether.” 

The affair with Tom Courtenay had worried Betty 
intensely and her engagement that morning had been 
a great strain. All this argument on the top of it 
seemed almost more than she could bear. She felt 
that she could either get married at once, or break 
off the engagement, or do anything else that would 
give her a little peace; and, as Tracey certainly was 
not at his best when he was arguing, she almost 
longed for the peace of disengagement. 

“ I suppose you care,” she asked tentatively. 
“ I mean that you care for me as much as you 
said?” 

He thought, and he frowned as he thought. “ If 
a man wants to do something tremendously,” he 
remarked, “ that man will find reasons why he 


1 86 


BETTY STANDISH 


should do it. I’m a hypocrite, Betty; but I’ve been 
humbugging myself as well as you. I wanted you ! 
I want you terribly! I wanted you so much that 
I imagined we ought to get married straight off. I 
suppose if I’d wanted to put off the wedding for 
a year, it would have occurred to me that we might 
meet abroad and get married.” 

A strong man influences a woman, and Tracey 
was beginning to have a great influence on Betty 
— an influence that neither he nor she had any idea 
of — and her moods were beginning to respond to his 
moods. This change, from an appeal to reason into 
an appeal to the heart, swayed her. 

“ I seem to have been waiting for you all my 
life,” he continued. “ Now that I’ve found you, 
I’m frightened. It sounds absurd, but I’m fright- 
ened to death of losing you. It haunts me! ” 

Betty felt weary no longer. 

“ I suppose it’s nerves — or anxiety — or some- 
thing — but I’d better tell you the whole truth ” 

He cleared his voice. “ The Traceys have been 
horribly unlucky about their marriages — and I’ve 
been frightened — ever since I asked you to marry 
me — I’m frightened that something may come 
between us before the wedding. I know it’s all rub- 
bish — or nerves — or something — but I can’t help it.” 


AT COOMBE LODGE 187 

“ Is it as bad as all that?” whispered Betty. 

“ It is.” 

“ Poor John! ” whispered Betty. 

“ I suppose ” and he hesitated. “ Do you 

love me enough to marry me straight away? ” 

“ And put you out of your misery? ” Her weari- 
ness was quite forgotten, and there was a wicked 
little dimple forming near the corner of Betty’s 
mouth. 

“ Yes! ” he answered doggedly. 

She looked into his eyes, and a divine impudence 
came over her. She walked away, inviting him 
with a glance to follow her. She led the way behind 
a clump of laurels. She closed her eyes tightly and 
tilted her chin. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, with reason. 

“Then you’ll actually marry me on Monday! ” 
said John, unsteadily. “ On next Monday! ” 

“ You’re awfully impatient — Mr. Tracey.” 

“ But you will, Betty? ” 

“ I said so,” said she, softly. 

There was no “ Oh! ” this time. 


They were walking very slowly towards the house. 
“ I can’t get away this afternoon, John — I really 


1 8 8 


BETTY STANDISH 


can’t. Just think! I must pack everything, and I 
must make a list of the clothes I’ll have to buy in 
Paris, and I must leave dad comfortable. You’ll 
have to go to Exeter by yourself.” 

“ How on earth can I choose it without you? ” 

“ I’d much rather you chose it without me — only 
don’t get an expensive one. I don’t want to be a 
jeweller’s shop.” 

“ But I don’t even know the size! ” 

“ Would — you — like — to — measure with a piece 
of meadow grass?” asked she, demurely, holding 
out her left hand, with all except the third finger 
slightly depressed. She knew that this method was 
reliable only in poetry, and she had a ring that fitted 
her all ready to give him. “ That variegated grass 
in the border will do.” 

She read something in Tracey’s eyes and, 
glancing first at the house and then at him, laughed 
and shook her head. 

It was the woman telling the man what the man 
had forgotten — that they were now in full view of 
the windows. 


CHAPTER XIX 


IN THE C.O.’S QUARTERS 

Tom Courtenay sauntered back from early parade, 
turned into the mess for his post and breakfast, and 
found Betty’s letter — the one which announced 
her probable engagement to Tracey. He glanced 
through it and, as he was a thorough Englishman, 
he managed to eat his breakfast without showing 
that anything was the matter; then he went across 
to his quarters, took out the letter, and again read 
it through. 

He was a nice boy; but, in spite of his twenty- 
two years, he was still a boy, and he still retained 
that strange blend of quixotism and cynicism, of 
inexperience and world-wisdom, which marks the 
boy. A woman becomes a woman at about twenty; 
a man is severely young in some ways and ab- 
normally old in other ways until he is well on to- 
wards thirty — then he becomes his own age. That' 
his senior major should marry a girl of about 
Betty’s age had seemed to him natural; but that his 
father’s friend could fall in love with Betty had 

189 


190 BETTY STANDISH 

never entered his thoughts, and the fact still re- 
mained incomprehensible. As a boy, he had learnt 
to turn to Betty in his scrapes; as a man he had 
failed to grasp the elementary principle that he 
should approach Tracey as man to man, without a 
woman’s intervention. Nevertheless, he now saw 
his mistake, and realised the justice of Betty’s 
letter. 

The breaking off of the engagement hurt him 
intensely; and, although it was in reality more of 
a blow to his pride than a blow at his heart, he did 
not know this— he was exactly like a sick child who 
does not know what is the matter with it — and 
deserves pity. 

Tom Courtenay got through his morning some- 
how, lunched in the town, and made his way to the 
Colonel’s quarters. Wisdom had prompted him to 
make his appointment for the afternoon, since C.O.’s 
who are apt to be liverish in the morning become 
amiable after lunch. 

“ I’ve got into rather a mess, sir,” began 
Courtenay, uneasily. 

“ So I gathered,” remarked the Colonel. “ Sit 
down, and help yourself to a cigarette.” He was 
a sympathetic C.O. as C.O.’s go. “ Now, out with 
it!” 


IN THE C.O.’S QUARTERS 19 1 

‘‘IVe been speculating, sir; I’ve been backing 
horses, and unless I can find two-fifty by Monday, 
I shall be posted. I want to ask your advice about 
sending in my papers.” 

“ Isn’t it rather late in the day for that, 
Courtenay? Don’t you realise that it will be 
Lieutenant Courtenay of the L.L.I. who will be 
posted, and not 4 Mr. Courtenay, late of the 
L.L.I.’? Have you been quite fair to the regi- 
ment? ” 

“ I’m awfully sorry, sir. I thought ” 

“Of course you did! Boys always think that 
something’s going to happen that will get them out 
of a scrape; then, when it’s too late, they come and 
tell their Colonel. What did you think? Were you 
going to fleece the bookmakers — it’s awfully easy 
work fleecing the bookmakers, isn’t it? — or was a 
raven going to flop down with a bundle of fivers? 
Eh, Courtenay? ” 

The boy grew red; he was feeling an utter fool. 

“ Now, look here, Courtenay,” continued his 
commanding officer, “ if I can help you out of the 
difficulty, will you give me your word never to bet 
again as long as you’re in my regiment? ” 

“ I will, sir.” Courtenay was wondering what 
the Colonel could possibly suggest. 


192 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ And will you sell your ponies and cut down 
expenses? You’ve been far too extravagant. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Would four hundred put you right? ” 

“ Yes, sir; more than put me right — that’s to say, 
with what I get from my ponies and things.” 

“ I’ve just had a letter from a man who knew 
your father, saying that he had heard you were in 
a scrape, and enclosing a cheque. Mind, ravens 
don’t flop down like this twice in a lifetime! ” 

Tom Courtenay paused to do some rapid think- 
ing: he had written to Betty, specially mentioning 
that Tracey had been a friend of his father, and 
asking her to borrow money for him. Betty had 
announced her engagement to Tracey, and the de- 
sired cheque had come (from a friend of his father) 
simultaneously. In mental arithmetic, two and two 
may make four, but they are often added up so that 
they make six or eight. 

“ May I ask who sent the cheque, sir? ” inquired 
Courtenay. “ I’ve — I’ve a reason for asking.” 

“You may state your reasons, Courtenay; but I 
can’t promise to give you an answer until I hear 
it: the letter’s more or less private.” 

“ I don’t want to see the letter, sir,” urged the 
boy. “ I don’t want to know what’s in it. I only 


193 


IN THE C.O.’S QUARTERS 

want to know if the man’s named Tracey. I can’t 
take the money if it’s Tracey.” 

The Colonel hesitated. These people were really 
making his task very difficult. 

It s like this, sir,” blurted out Courtenay, in 
desperation: “I heard from a girl I was engaged 
to, this morning, breaking off the engagement and 
saying that she was going to marry Tracey. Don’t 
you see I cant take the money?” He was not 
trying to gloss matters over, only to show that he 
could not accept the money. “ Tracey couldn’t 
have known of my difficulties unless the girl had 
told him, and I can’t take the cheque, sir! ” 

I see,” said the Colonel — it seemed so clear 
from Courtenay’s account that this girl had thrown 
over the penniless subaltern in order to accept the 
man of means, and that she had persuaded Tracey 
to clear off Courtenay’s debt as a sop to her con- 
science. I shall write to Mr. Tracey, telling him 
that under the circumstances I could not advise you 
to take the money. Now let’s see what can be done 
to pull you through.” 

To cut a long and uninteresting story short, the 
Colonel found that Courtenay’s affairs were much 
better than the boy imagined, that he had certain 
shares in East Indian properties which had already 


BETTY STANDISH 


194 

begun to feel the increase in the demand for 
rubber, and, advancing him enough to settle his bets 
— he was an exceptionally kind C.O. — the Colonel 
packed the boy off on a week’s leave. 

Alone in his quarters, the boy reviewed the 
situation. From a financial standpoint there was 
hope, and with hard work and strict economy he 
might even have made a home for Betty within a 
year or two; but what he had done was awful, 
and the result of what he had done was even worse. 
It was clear to him now, clear as daylight: Betty 
had spoken to Tracey about the loan, and had sacri- 
ficed herself to Tracey, so that he might make it. 
He did not know how, nor could he tell exactly 
what had happened; but of this he was certain — 
Betty had in some way sacrificed herself in order to 
persuade Tracey to lend him the money. 

Then there came a wave of reaction. He was 
freed from the worst of his money worries, and 
Betty would free herself from this Tracey and send 
him packing. His spirits rose with a bound, and 
he wrote a wild letter to his sweetheart. 

“ Kindly tell Mr. Tracey that you are bespoke,” 
he wrote, “ and that I would rather see you dead 
than married to him. Tell the hairy old pirate that 
he is old enough to be your father, and that what 


IN THE C.O.’S QUARTERS 


195 

he really wants is a nurse, etc., etc.” This relieved 
his feelings somewhat. “ I know you loved me 
when you promised to marry me. I know you 
loved me last time you let me kiss you. I know 
you loved me when you sacrificed yourself to 
Tracey. I know this because you are not the girl 
to love and then change your mind.” Which last 
sentence relieved his feelings altogether. 

This letter was delivered at Coombe Lodge on 
Saturday afternoon, and, as Betty had already gone 
up to town with Colonel Standish, it was for- 
warded to her. There are no Sunday deliveries in 
London, consequently it was impossible for her to 
receive this letter until Monday morning. 


CHAPTER XX 


A WEDDING 

There are some girls who are always wholesome, 
and whose waking is as sweet and fresh as the 
unfolding of flower petals: so when Betty woke she 
smiled to herself because her dreams had been 
pleasant, she stretched herself luxuriously for her 
bed was very comfortable, and she opened her eyes. 
She looked round the room, wondering where she 
was. Then she realised that she was in her bed- 
room at the Hotel Richard, and that this was her 
wedding morning. 

Probably she felt something of that shrinking 
from the unknown that the most devout young man 
would feel on the morning of his ordination, or 
the keenest Girton girl on the eve of her first situa- 
tion as high-school mistress; but, almost as she 
opened her eyes, the chamber-maid came to draw 
up the blinds and tell her that her bath was ready, 
she had to rouse herself and prepare for her bride- 
groom, and the feeling of uncertainty was lost in the 
certainty of her love for John Tracey. 

196 


A WEDDING 


197 

“ Something old,” she whispered presently, as she 
drew on a silk stocking that she had worn at the 
Coombe Ottery lawn-tennis ball. 

“ Something new.” A white kid shoe followed. 

“ Something borrowed.” She had to think a 
minute before it occurred to her that she must 
borrow a pocket-handkerchief from the chamber- 
maid. 

“ Something blue,” and she secured the silk 
stockings with a length of blue ribbon in place of 
the customary suspenders. 

By a stroke of luck, Betty had chosen an autumn 
dress of white serge; by the interposition of a kind 
Providence, September had been so warm that she 
had never been able to wear it; and, as she placed 
a large white hat, bought just before the shops 
closed on Saturday, at a becoming angle on her 
head, she looked the very ideal of a girl who was 
about to be married in her travelling dress. Doubt- 
less, God could have made a sweeter looking bride 
than Betty Tracey; but, doubtless, He never did. 

But here the bride-elect found herself in a 
dilemma, for how could she wear a veil, tucked 
under the chin after the fashion of 1908, and yet so 
arrange the veil that she could be kissed when the 
wedding was over? She had only just solved the 


BETTY STANDISH 


198 

difficulty by an ingenious compromise, when there 
was a knock at the door and the maid entered. 

“ The gentleman in Number Fourteen asked me 
to give you this, ma’am,” and the maid placed a 
muff and stole of silver fox on the dressing-table. 
“ The gentleman from Fifteen asked me to give 
you this.” It was a spray of white heather, with 
a brooch formed of five large pearls attached, all 
ready to pin it on. “ And both gentlemen told me 
to say they was starting.” 

The furs were sumptuous, and the heather as 
fresh as dew, but Betty found her chief pleasure 
in the two notes that were tied to the presents — 
one saying that John feared she might find the 
church cold — the other, signed by Postlethwaite, 
bidding her hunt in the heather. She hunted, and 
found a sprig of orange blossom artfully concealed 
in the midst of the ling. 

“ And Number Fourteen told me to ask you to 
look inside the muff, ma’am,” added the chamber- 
maid, as Betty was wondering what she should do 
with the muff when it came to the pledging of the 
marriage vows. She looked, and found a long rope 
of pearls, fitted with a clasp so that it might form 
a muff chain. “ John seems to think of everything,” 
thought Betty. 


A WEDDING 


199 

She walked down the stairs, worthy of a whole- 
page illustration and two columns of description in 
The Queen , to find a very impatient father waiting 
for her; but, alas! she discovered that she had for- 
gotten something, and, with a hurried excuse, she 
ran upstairs and rang for the maid. 

“Oh! could you lend me a handkerchief ? ” 
asked Betty. 

With one inquiring look at the pile of dainty 
pocket-handkerchiefs on the dressing-table, one 
laughing look at Betty, the chamber-maid fled to 
the service room. “ This belongs to Number 
Eleven, ma’am,” she explained, “ so please let me 
have it immediately after the wedding.” 

“ Then you knew ? ” cried the bride-elect. 

“ I’m shortly to be married myself, ma’am,” con- 
fessed the chamber-maid. “ I hope you’ll be very 
happy! ” 

“What a mercy I remembered!” murmured 
Betty as she ran downstairs with' the handkerchief 
in her hand. “ I nearly wasn’t properly married! ” 
Then she laughed at her folly. 

Whilst Betty was finishing her toilet, playing 
with the magic of “ something old and something 
new,” and keeping her father waiting, John 
Tracey and St. John Postlethwaite were cooling 


200 


BETTY STANDISH 


their heels in the porch of St. James’s, Piccadilly. 
As the wedding had been fixed for eight-thirty, and 
it was already five-and-twenty to nine, John was 
beginning to grow nervous, and Postlethwaite was 
doing his best to keep him engaged in conversation. 

“ I can imagine many things, old chap,” re- 
marked Postlethwaite, craning his neck as though 
he could hope to see round the corner and up Sack- 
ville Street; “but I can’t picture you inside, with 
the parson breathing Eden over you.” 

“ Nor can I,” answered John. “ Did you notice 
the front of the choir stalls? They’re carved in 
columns, exactly like the Tracey portico.” 

“ I suppose you’ll celebrate the real ceremony at 
breakfast? Eat some rice and share a cup of sake 
with your bride — that’s the correct formula — isn’t 
it?” 

“ Or break a tile, like a couple of gipsies,” 
sneered Tracey. “ They’re all equally absurd.” 

“ Why, what’s wrong? ” asked Postlethwaite, 
sharply. “What do you mean?” It was not like 
Tracey to speak slightingly of marriage, especially 
his own marriage. 

“ Do you imagine that the parson, or the sake 
cup, or the broken tile makes a marriage? ” 

“ What on earth do you mean? ” 


A WEDDING 


201 


“Why, man!” exclaimed Tracey, “one’s laws 
may register the marriage, or one’s religion may 
bless the union, but marriage is older than any law 
or any religion. It’s the man and woman who do 
the marrying.” 

“Oh!” begged Postlethwaite. “Will the hon- 
ourable Oriental honourably deign to enlighten his 
dishonourable friend? ” 

“ Marriage is only the permanent mating of two 
persons who intend to live together and bring up 
their children together.” His eyes had a far-away 
look and he seemed wrapped up in his subject, but 
his ears were listening for the sound of the motor- 
cab. “ I always think that English people are so 
intent on the wedding, the wedding breakfast, and 
the bridesmaids, that they have forgotten the real 
essence of marriage.” 

“ Which is ? ” 

“ To live together naturally and have children. 
And I always think it’s because English people 
have forgotten this, that their divorce courts are 
crowded.” 

“ Go on ! ” said Postlethwaite. “ You’re interest- 
ing me.” 

“ It’s the swan-song of John Tracey,” continued 
Tracey with a smile. “ You see, Postle, when I’m 


202 


BETTY STANDISH 


married, the subject will be sacred between my wife 
and myself. By Jove! here they come! No, it’s 
only an empty taxi ! ” 

“ Sing away, old swan ! ” laughed Postlethwaite. 
“ I’m listening.” 

“ As you know, I’ve given up my religion, but 
the Catholic Church is pretty right about marriage, 
all the same. Suppose two Papists — we’ll call them 
John and Joan — live in a country where the Catholic 
marriage is legal without any other registration: if 
they went through the ceremony, and lived together, 
neither the Pope nor anyone else could unloose the 
marriage. But, if they went through the ceremony, 
and John deserted Joan at the church door, Rome 
would hold that the marriage had never been con- 
summated, and the Church could dissolve the union. 
Suppose, on the other hand, John and Joan were 
wrecked in the Antarctic, and took each other as 
man and wife without any ecclesiastical or legal 
ceremony, Rome would hold that they were mar- 
ried. Listen! Isn’t that them?” There was the 
throb of a motor, followed by a loud back-fire. 

“ It’s them, if they’ve chartered a vanguard. 
Warble ahead, Tracey.” 

“ What I’ve said sounds sensual,” . remarked 
Tracey, meditatively, “ but an engaged man keeps 


A WEDDING 


203 

his thoughts awfully clean. He marries the girl 
because he likes her so much that he wants to have 
her near him always. You understand, Postle?” 

Postlethwaite nodded his head. This was what 
he wanted to get down to. 

“They go off together; everything’s right, and 
the inevitable is inevitable. That’s marriage! 
From my point of view we’re just going to register 
our marriage — nothing more. I say, how late they 
are! ” 

“ Bride’s difficulty with her back hair — delay of 
the wedding — bridegroom’s suicide — awful tragedy ! 
Come, buck up, Tracey! ” 

“ Don’t rot! ” said Tracey, testily. 

“ Practise your religion, old chap,” encouraged 
the Postle. “Be a brave, bold Buddhist! If the 
bride’s smashed up, you’ll meet her in your next 
reincarnation. It would be rather awkward, 
though, if she came to life in the body of a giraffe 
and you as a black beetle. Come along! Let’s 
have a squint down Piccadilly,” and he tucked his 
arm affectionately into Tracey’s. 

Mrs. John Tracey went upstairs to Miss Betty 
Standish’s bedroom, with joy singing in her heart. 
Her love for John Tracey was really assuming most 


204 


BETTY STANDISH 


alarming proportions, and his absurd happiness at 
seeing her when her cab drew up at St. James’s had 
put the crowning touch to her joyousness. Break- 
fast would not be ready for quite ten minutes, and 
she meant to make a full use qf her time. 

She took off her hat — it would be an affectation 
to wear it when there were only four of them at 
breakfast — and, moved by the same impulse she had 
felt during that first evening at Tracey, she took a 
rose from a vase on the dressing-table and placed 
it in her hair. The rose was a vivid red and, what 
with her light hair and white dress, it struck a note 
of colour that was only repeated by her lips: John 
should see that he had married someone who was 
as dainty as anyone in Japan. She smiled at the 
reflection in the mirror, and the reflection smiled 
back at her. “ Well, if I’m as pretty as you,” said 
Betty Tracey to the reflection, “ I must be very 
pretty indeed.” Such were the reflections of Betty 
Tracey. 

Next, she took the pearl rope and wound it three 
times round her neck, and pinned the spray of white 
heather a trifle higher on her shoulder; and she took 
a small parcel of tissue-paper from her trunk and 
produced the lace handkerchief which Tracey had 
given her in exchange for the diary one. Lastly she 


A WEDDING 


205 


turned to the mantelpiece for some lavender-water 
to scent the handkerchief, and she saw a letter which 
had come whilst she was at church. There was no 
mistaking the handwriting, and she tore open the 
envelope. 

“ Darling, Darling Betty, — I have got your 
letter, and I have seen the Colonel and I understand. 
I can only say I love you a thousand times more 
than I did before you were mad enough to engage 
yourself to Tracey. It was a mad sacrifice, but 
what you have done has made me realise how much 
I love you. 

“ My affairs have turned out much better than 
I thought. I am selling my ponies, and with real 
economy I can make a home for you before long. 

“ Kindly tell Mr. Tracey that you are bespoke, 
and that I would rather see you dead than married 
to him. Tell the hairy old pirate that he is old 
enough to be your father, and that what he really 
wants is a nice respectable nurse who will look after 
his gout and soothe his declining years. Of course 
I don’t mean this seriously, but you will have to 
tell him that you have mistaken respect (!) for 
affection, and that you feel you care for him like 
a father — or something. 

“ I know you loved me when you promised to 
marry me. I know you loved me last time you let 
me kiss you. I know you loved me when you sacri- 


20 6 


BETTY STANDISH 


ficed yourself to Tracey. I know this because you 
are not the girl to love and then change your mind. 

“ I have behaved very badly, but it was not as 
bad as it must have seemed to you. I will explain 
when we meet. I hope to get some leave in about 
three weeks, and then I will explain. The C.O. 
has just sent me off for a week’s leave, and I must 
finish my packing. How I love you, darling. 

“ Your most loving 

“ Tom.” 

The joy left Betty’s heart and the brightness went 
out of her face. Her first impulse was to tear the 
letter into shreds, but with it there came the instinct 
that told her she was a married woman, and that 
she must show the letter to her husband. She would 
wait until they were in the train, and then she would 
show him the letter and tell him everything — 
everything. 

But what had she to tell? Simply that she had 
promised to marry Tom before she had any idea of 
what love meant; that she had fallen in love with 
her husband before she had any idea of what love 
meant; that Tom had shown himself quite unworthy 
of being her— any girl’s— husband ; that she had 
written to break off the engagement, and had ac- 
cepted John. Her sole mistake had lay in acting 
on what she had written without allowing for the 


A WEDDING 2o 7 

delay of the post. But how would John take it? 
And why had she been such a weak coward? And 
why had she not insisted on telling Tracey before 
they were married? 

She had not an atom of pity for Tom Courtenay; 
because, when a woman loves a man as intensely 
as Betty now loved Tracey, she is ready to slay 
any man who would come between herself and her 
lover. 

She looked at her reflection in the mirror with 
nausea ; she pulled out the rose, and flung it in the 
fireplace; she put on her hat, and stuck the hat-pins 
through it savagely. She arranged her veil so that 
it covered the top part of her face, and went down 
to breakfast leaden-footed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE PARIS EXPRESS 

A whistle blew, and the Continental Express 
steamed slowly out of Charing Cross Station. 
Postlethwaite had gone on ahead to secure seats, 
and Postlethwaite had managed to secure a reserved 
compartment, but what is the use of a reserved com- 
partment in a corridor train? The very fact that 
the compartment is reserved only prompts the for- 
eigner to peep in from the corridor with increased 
curiosity. 

Since there were people passing and repassing, 
Tracey seated himself opposite Betty. He loved 
to look at her, and she was like a snow maiden in 
her white dress and white furs. It is true that she 
was paler than usual, but then John Tracey was 
no Magenta Rake to admire the Pink Purity with 
its Scarlet Kisses, dear to the Lady Novelist. If 
she should look paler than usual, had she not just 
said good-bye to Colonel Standish? 

And yet, he could not help noticing that the corners 
of her mouth were sad, and he could not help remem- 

208 


THE PARIS EXPRESS 


209 

bering that she had been very subdued during break- 
fast. The instinct of the man to comfort the woman, 
the instinct of the lover to come close to his sweetheart 
— even though only his arm might touch hers — pos- 
sessed him, and he crossed over and sat beside Betty. 

“ Well, Mrs. Tracey,” he said, taking her hand, 
and pulling it down between them until it could not be 
seen from the corridor. “ So I Ve got you at last ! ” 

“ John,” she began — then she hesitated a 
moment and pressed his hand — “ I want you to be 
good to me — I’ve something horrible to show you.” 

He smiled at her; and his smile made her task 
the more difficult, partly because she knew that 
Courtenay’s letter would hurt him, and partly be- 
cause she guessed that it might shock him. 

“ You remember on the lawn, just before you — 
why should I mind saying it — just before I let you 
kiss me? ” 

“ Yes! ” answered Tracey. 

“ You remember I wanted to tell you about my 
engagement, and you wouldn’t let me, and I was 
a coward and didn’t insist? ” 

“ And I’d rather not hear about it now, sweet- 
heart,” he replied, squeezing her hand. “ Wait till 
we’re back from our honeymoon.” It was evidently 
this absurd confession that had been disturbing Betty. 


210 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ But you must hear! I’ve had a letter about it 
—a beastly! beastly! beastly! letter, and you must 
see it. Don’t you understand? You’re my hus- 
band, and you must see it! ” 

“Who’s it from?” Tracey was not inclined to 
take the matter very seriously. 

“ The man I was engaged to — Tom Courtenay.” 

“Oh!” said John. He had received back his 
cheque, and realised that there might be more in 
this matter than he had at first imagined. Inci- 
dentally, he had seen photographs of Tom Court- 
enay in the drawing-room at Coombe Lodge, and 
had noticed that the boy was exceedingly handsome. 

She took the letter out of her muff and handed 
it to him: he took the letter from her and read it 
through very slowly. 

He did not fly into a temper like a proper man, 
for his stay in Japan had taught him to control his 
temper and act with gentleness and courtesy. It 
would have been far easier for Betty if he had 
flown into a passion. 

He did not make light of the matter and com- 
fort his bride, like a man of the world who had won 
his trick, for he had cultivated an abnormal sense 
of honour, and anything that could touch Betty’s 
honour in the remotest degree distressed him. 


THE PARIS EXPRESS 


21 I 


He loved Betty intensely; he felt for Betty in- 
tensely; but this matter seemed to him as far apart 
from his love or feelings as a question of religion 
seems to some of the religious. So his voice took 
that hateful, impersonal, duty-at-any-cost tone that 
many adopt when they are speaking of religion to 
their nearest and dearest. It was this particular 
tone of John Tracey’s that invariably froze Betty, 
and made her both tongue-tied and rebellious. 

“ I don’t understand this letter,” said John, 
gravely. “ I suppose you’d broken off the engage- 
ment before I proposed? ” 

“ I didn’t — I hadn’t — at least I’d written.” 

“ What did you write, Betty? ” 

“ I wrote saying — asking — for an explanation,” 
stammered the girl. Then she burst out: 
“ You’re not very sympathetic! ” 

John sighed. 

“ Oh, yes! ” she cried, “ I wrote breaking off the 
engagement before I gave you your answer, all 
right.” 

“ If it takes two to make an engagement,” said 
John, quietly, “ it takes two to break it. Had you 
your answer, little Betty? ” 

“That’s my answer! ” said she, pointing to the 
letter, “ and you might have known it.” 


212 


BETTY STANDISH 


A Frenchman in the corridor stopped and looked 
through the window until John’s scowl drove him 
away. Then Tracey re-read the letter, and another 
aspect of the case struck him. 

“ Did you care for Courtenay? ” asked John. 

“ Do you imagine I’d have accepted him unless 
I’d liked him? ” she answered defiantly. He would 
not help her to tell her story. He would not en- 
courage her to make explanations. He asked her 
questions in that hateful tone of his that made her 
feel like a shy, foolish little schoolgirl ; and now he 
was staring out of the carriage window into vacancy. 

His silence swung on through mile after mile of 
Kent, accompanied by the sing-song of the train, 
until it became unbearable. 

“Well?” said Betty. 

“ It was my fault,” answered John, sadly. “ I 
ought to have listened to you, but I thought — never 
imagined it could be anything serious.” 

She wanted to press him for an explanation, but 
she was afraid of trusting her voice. 

“ If you don’t mind, I’ll go into a smoking car- 
riage,” said John, rising. “ I must think things over.” 

“ Poor little Betty! ” he added, tenderly, and he 
stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, in a 
horribly paternal manner. 


CHAPTER XXII 


CONCERNING JEALOUSY 

If this chapter should prove wearisome, adopt Mr. 
Eustace Miles’ advice — “Don’t worry! Skip!” 
And yet it is somewhat difficult to understand how 
Courtenay’s letter affected John Tracey, unless we 
form some idea of the action of jealousy. 

I. In the notices of Mr. Harry W. Cox, who 
died on 9th July, 1910, from X-ray dermatitis, the 
Press gave a list of sixteen other victims of science. 
The Express concluded its notice: 

“ The majority of these men suffer acute and in- 
cessant pain for which there is no known relief. 

“ Most of them have suffered amputation and 
operations, and many have lost the use of their 
hands. 

“ The disease is a progressive one, growing 
steadily but relentlessly, so that in many cases one 
operation is succeeded by another, and as soon as the 
disease has been checked in one quarter it breaks out 
elsewhere.” 

The action of the X-rays is painless, and the 
213 


214 


BETTY STANDISH 


malady does not make its appearance until some 
time after the damage has been done. 

Practically every other ailment can be traced to 
some understandable cause: a bruise, burn, or strain, 
a poisoning by some mineral or vegetable, the intro- 
duction of animal or vegetable germs, the failure of 
some vital organ to renew blood and tissue or to 
remove refuse. With X-ray dermatitis, an invisible 
current of X-rays flows through the tissues; nothing 
is felt and nothing appears until X-ray dermatitis 
sets in. 

The only reasonable solution of the problem lies 
in Sir Oliver Lodge’s theory of the human body 
being composed of numberless electrons revolving 
at an incredible speed, and the assumption that the 
X-ray current alters or disturbs these electrons, so 
that they cease to be normal electrons acting in their 
normal, healthy manner. This theory is strength- 
ened by the certainty that no electric current could 
leave any poison or other material substance behind 
it, and that the X-rays make no visible alteration 
in the human tissues; it is confirmed by the knowl- 
edge that the passage of an electric current may 
cause some alteration in those electrons which form 
substance. 

II. A bar of soft iron, for instance, is composed 


CONCERNING JEALOUSY 215 

of numberless electrons, each of which is a tiny 
magnet with its constant flow of the magnetic cur- 
rent. Under normal conditions these tiny magnets 
so adjust themselves, that the current flows from 
one to the other, and none of the magnetic current 
leaves the bar of iron. 

But take this bar of iron, place it inside a coil 
of copper wire and pass a strong electric current 
through the wire; all the tiny magnets in the iron 
are turned round the same way, their magnetic 
currents flow in the same direction, and the united 
volume of these magnetic currents flows out of one 
end of the bar, through the air, and in at the other 
end of the bar, making the iron bar a strong electro- 
magnet. 

Remove the iron bar from the coil of copper 
wire; the tiny magnets in the iron swing back to 
their original positions, each satisfies the other, and 
the bar of iron ceases to be magnetic. 

The disturbance caused by the electric coil has 
passed, and the iron comes back to its normal 
condition. 

III. Again take the bar of iron, and treat it so 
that it absorbs carbon and is converted into steel. 
The steel is still composed of those tiny magnets 
which formed the iron; those tiny magnets are still 


21 6 


BETTY STANDISH 


in the same position, each satisfying the other; but 
the electrons have, so to speak, become jammed, 
and can only be swung round with difficulty. 

Place the bar of steel in the electric coil, striking 
the steel sharply so as to jar the electrons, and the 
steel becomes an electro-magnet in exactly the same 
way as the iron. The tiny magnets, what with the 
shock of the jar and the force of the electric current, 
have been swung round so that their magnetic cur- 
rents unite and flow in the same direction. 

Remove the steel bar from the coil of copper 
wire; the tiny magnets in the steel are jammed so 
firmly, and move with such difficulty, that they 
cannot swing back to their original position and 
satisfy each other: the bar of steel remains a 
permanent magnet. 

IV. If the ordinary electric current can produce 
such an extraordinary effect on the electrons which 
constitute steel, that the steel is converted into a 
permanent magnet; then the little known current 
that we term X-rays can surely produce some ex- 
traordinary and permanent effect on the little-under- 
stood electrons which form the human flesh. 

V. Now the theory of human love between man 
and woman, which was formulated in Chapter V 
— half in jest and half in earnest — does not appear 


CONCERNING JEALOUSY 217 

improbable; and if it be true, it accounts for 
jealousy as well as for love. 

Take the idea that love is mental attraction, and 
what is to distinguish the idea from that of platonic 
affection? Take the idea of mere physical attrac- 
tion, and the idea is not nice; but assume that love 
is some magnetic attraction which is more tangible 
and physical than platonic affection, and less selfish 
and sensual than the lower passions, whilst it com- 
bines the best qualities of both, and you have the 
neatest possible definition of love. 

If the love between a man and his particular mate 
originates in the harmony of the electric particles; 
if love is the satisfaction of the positive electric 
current which flows from the man, by the negative 
electric current which flows from the woman, and 
vice versa; then, anything which checks or diverts 
the flow of the love current — whether the disturbing 
cause be mental or physical — must produce very 
grave and serious consequences. 

In ordinary cases, this disturbance is called 
jealousy; and jealousy produces such extraordinary 
results, in both thoughts and actions, that it is im- 
possible to ascribe the malady to any known cause. 
Once let something, either physical or mental, either 
real or imaginary, upset the current of true love, 


218 


BETTY STANDISH 


and jealousy will set in as surely as an excess of 
the X-ray will produce dermatitis. 

Brain-fag predisposes a man to jealousy; and an 
over-tired man is apt to become jealous on the most 
trivial pretext. 

Let jealousy get a firm hold, and it spreads 
through the system and affects the brain until the 
victim loses his mental balance; he ceases to think 
like a normal person and he often acts in an ab- 
normal manner. No one would call the Spaniard 
who murders a rival in a fit of jealousy perfectly 
sane, and the Englishman who keeps his jealousy 
secret is no more sane than the Spaniard; the dif- 
ference is the difference between a sudden outburst 
and a fixed mania. In fact, just as a bar of soft iron 
that is affected by the electric coil recovers its normal 
qualities when the cause is removed, so the violent 
man often recovers from a fit of jealousy; the calm, 
firm man is more like the tempered steel — his jeal- 
ousy is apt to be permanent. 

John Tracey had gone through much mental strain 
during the few days before his wedding; he had 
worked almost ceaselessly so that he might get his 
affairs in order, and leave for his honeymoon with 
a clear conscience; he was in the exact physical and 


CONCERNING JEALOUSY 219 

psychological condition to be attacked by jealousy. 

Given a fairly reasonable cause, and Courtenay’s 
letter furnished an excuse above the average, jeal- 
ousy might produce a disastrous effect on Tracey’s 
character. The natural man in him must have 
inherited a tendency towards jealousy; a fear of the 
Tracey curse would help to foster and nurture this 
trend in his disposition; his cultivated habit of 
gentleness and courtesy would make him hide both 
his temper and feelings from Betty; and, last but 
not least, since jealousy always takes the path of 
least resistance, his high sense of duty might easily 
be perverted into some imaginary and quixotic way 
of honour. 

As for Betty — there is no doubt that she would 
have felt the reasonableness of an honest outburst 
of jealousy in response to Tom Courtenay’s letter; 
there is no doubt that she would have been sweet 
enough and womanly enough to win him out of 
his mood. But the wholesome self-respect of a wife 
could not be expected to bear the jealousy that dis- 
guises itself as an angel of duty. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE PARIS EXPRESS — (CONTINUED) 

John Tracey was fortunate enough to find a vacant 
corner in a first-class smoking carriage, and he leant 
back and instinctively lit a cigar. Tom Courtenay’s 
letter had given him plenty to think about, but his 
predominant idea — the idea he could not get away 
from — was that Betty loved Courtenay. The 
words — “ you loved me when you promised to 
marry me — you loved me last time you let me kiss 
you — you loved me when you sacrificed yourself to 
Tracey — I know this because you are not the girl 

to love and then change your mind ” floated 

before his eyes. He knew that they must be true — 
that they were true — because the concluding argu- 
ment was unanswerable, and Betty was certainly not 
the girl to love and then change her mind. 

There were recollections and suggestions enough 
to feed his thoughts. There was her protest that 
she had never thought of his falling in love with 
her during those happy weeks when they were 
planning the lake together; there was her unwilling- 


220 


221 


THE PARIS EXPRESS — ( Continued) 

ness to accept him when he proposed, and her hesi- 
tation in giving him a definite answer; there was, 
above all, her unwillingness to let him kiss her. 
Courtenay’s letter had spoken of kisses, but she had 
withheld her lips from him as long as she decently 
could. 

He did not recall her gracious actions to him, or 
if he did remember them he did not dwell on them, 
for the very essence of jealousy lies in looking at 
the evil and ignoring the good. 

He did not feel angry with her. It would have 
been far better for him and have hurt him far less 
if he had been angry, but Betty had given him no 
cause for anger. It was not as though she had 
fallen in love with Courtenay after she had been 
engaged to Tracey, or even after she had met 
Tracey. She had done him no wrong — except the 
supreme wrong of giving him herself without her 
affections. 

Of course he knew girls who had thrown over 
men they cared for, in order to marry men who had 
money; but he did not for one moment imagine 
that Betty had acted from mercenary motives, nor 
did he imagine that she had jilted the penniless sub 
so that she might secure a comfortable home and a 
position in the county. Then, why had she married 


222 


BETTY STANDISH 


him? The letter implied that Courtenay had be- 
haved very badly, and that his behaviour had ap- 
peared even worse than it was in reality; but Betty 
was not likely to have broken with Courtenay in 
a fit of anger, and immediately have engaged herself 
to someone else. 

He could not imagine that Betty was to blame, 
but how about the Colonel? Colonel Standish had 
not known of her engagement to Courtenay when 
he asked permission to try and win Betty, and the 
Colonel approved of her engagement to himself. 
Surely when the trouble had arisen about Court- 
enay’s conduct, the Colonel had used his influence 
on behalf of Tracey. He could not blame the 
Colonel. Who could blame a father for wishing 
to see his daughter comfortably married? And the 
blunder in accepting one man, before she was off 
with the other, had surely been the bungling of 
Betty’s inexperience. 

Poor little Betty! She had probably accepted 
him from motives of duty and affection towards her 
father. She must have known that she could not 
hope to marry Courtenay — his knowledge of Court- 
enay’s affairs combined with the letter made this 
certain. She did not dislike him, and so she accepted 
him. No ! He would be just to himself. She liked 


THE PARIS EXPRESS— ( Continued) 223 

him, she liked him honestly. “ Tell him,” said the 
letter, “ that you care for him like a father.” That 
summed up the situation. 

It was a hideous thought, that this girl of twenty- 
one, who was in love with a good-looking boy of 
about her own age, should be tied to a middle-aged 
man whom she only liked! It was contrary to 
nature. It was a sacrilege. He shrank from the 
idea of taking the privileges of a husband. He 
would try to return to the position that they had 
held towards each other before he proposed. 

Thus did his reasoning carry him on, mixing 
truths with half-truths, and using both as the base 
for false deductions. He had been thoroughly tired 
out before he had read Courtenay’s letter, and his 
brain worked, as the brain of every over-tired man 
works, without proper self-control: for the brains 
of a clever man and the brains of a clever madman 
both work with recollection, invention, and imag- 
ination; and the difference between sanity and in- 
sanity lies in the fact that sanity concentrates and 
directs the thoughts, whereas insanity does not; and 
a clever man who is so tired that he has lost 
control over his brain has ceased to be sane and 
reasonable. 

His jealousy had never broken out in anger; now 


BETTY STANDISH 


224 

it took the form of melancholia : he felt an intense 
pity for Betty, and a despair for himself. 

But stay! What about Betty being engaged to 
Courtenay, and Courtenay refusing to release her? 
Could a man who had sworn fidelity to his wife 
swear fidelity to another woman? Could an Eng- 
lish soldier take vows of allegiance to the German 
Emperor? Surely Betty’s engagement to Court- 
enay, and Courtenay’s refusal to release her from 
her promise, had made it impossible for her to bind 
herself to John Tracey! 

His brain, jarred by the shock of the letter, swung 
round in obedience to his new idea; and the belief 
that he and Betty were not really married became 
as surely fixed as the electrons of a permanent 
magnet. 

It was true that they were firmly married by the 
law, and that this legal marriage could not be dis- 
solved except through a scandal which he had no 
idea of incurring; but there was no reason why 
they should not live together as friends. This would 
be an honourable course for himself, and surely 
an agreeable course for the girl who was in 
love with Tom Courtenay. There was no reason 
why they should not be as happy together as they 
were before he asked Betty to marry him; and if, 


THE PARIS EXPRESS — (Continued) 225 

at any time, the position should become impossible, 
there was always The Way Out. His life in Japan 
had taught him that, when honour or the good of 
others demands the sacrifice, there is always The 
Way Out. He would go and tell Betty his decision, 
and relieve her mind— but of course he would say 
nothing about The Way Out. 

“ Well? ” said Betty, smiling sweetly at him 
as he entered the compartment. If she had been 
crying, she had managed to remove all traces; for 
she knew what every wise girl knows, that, although 
tears may be “ the rain-drops which glisten in the 
garden of love,” even the most violet of eyes do not 
look well beneath red eyelids. She had realised that 
Courtenay’s letter must have been a severe shock 
to him, and she was anxious to show both love and 
sympathy. Then it would be his turn to comfort 
her. 

He sat down beside her and took her hand, just 
as he had taken it before; but now she felt that 
there was an impalpable difference in his touch. 

“Do you realise what that letter means?” he 
began, speaking very tenderly. 

“ I don’t think so,” she murmured. Her heart 
was beginning to beat fast, and she felt herself 
slipping back into the schoolgirl. 


226 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ If you were married to one man, could you 
marry another? ” 

“ But — I — wasn’t — married ! ” 

“ If you mortgaged your property to one man, 
could you give it to another? ” 

“N— o ! ” 

“ If you mortgaged yourself to one man, could 
you give yourself to another? ” 

She was biting her lip as hard as she could. 

“ It isn’t your fault, dear,” he said. “ You meant 
to do everything that was right and sweet. It isn’t 
your fault, Betty; it’s the sort of luck the Traceys 
have always had.” 

He paused a minute, but Betty was speech- 
less. 

“ Don’t you see, darling? We’re legally married 
just as fast as the law can tie us ; but you weren’t 
free to marry, and you couldn’t marry, and we’re 
not married. I mean we’re not married by what 
you d call the law of God, and I’d call the law of 
honour.” 

He made another hateful pause. 

“ I know why you hesitated when I asked you, 
and I know how you must have shrunk from the 
sacrifice,” he continued, oblivious to her gesture of 
protest; “but I want you to feel that you haven’t 


THE PARIS EXPRESS — ( Continued) 227 

married a brute who’ll take advantage of you — and 
— that we’ll live together — like friends.” 

Again he paused, but this time it was not to 
formulate logical arguments. 

“We’ve been such dear friends, Betty,” he said 
unsteadily; “ and I care for you more than I ever 
did — and I’ll do all I can to make it easy for you — 
and you can trust me — and I’ll try all I can to 
make you happy — and if you ever feel you can’t 
bear it, I’ll find some way out — a perfectly honour- 
able way out — and ” His feelings were getting 

the better of him; and, if he and Betty had been 
absolutely alone, it is possible that his love might 
have conquered his jealousy; but he saw Betty stiffen, 
and, following the direction of her glance John saw 
that the Frenchman was again peering into the com- 
partment. 

Tracey rose quietly. He went to the door 
quietly; but the Frenchman did not like the look 
of this large, quiet man, and, before John could 
reach the corridor, the Frenchman had scuttled along 
the passage, bolted into another compartment, and 
John could not follow him without making a scene. 

Again John seated himself beside Betty. “ May 
I kiss you, once? ” he asked. 

She allowed him to raise her veil, but she turned 


228 


BETTY STANDISH 


her lips away from him and her cheek towards 
him. He kissed her, and he felt her shudder as he 
kissed her. He imagined that it was a shudder of 
distaste mingled with relief; but it was the shudder 
of a wife whose womanhood was being outraged. 
Then Betty drew herself up and looked out of the 
window. 

Now, if a bar of magnetised steel — with all its 
tiny magnets wedged in the same direction and all 
its magnetism flowing in the same direction — be 
heated to the temperature of boiling water, the steel 
will expand, some of the rigidity will be lost, some 
of the electrons will swing back and satisfy each 
other, and some of the magnetism will disappear. 
If the steel be heated red hot, all the tiny magnets 
will be free to swing back to their original position 
and the magnetism will vanish altogether. But if 
the steel which had been heated to the temperature 
of boiling water were chilled to freezing point, it 
would be capable of being permanently re-mag- 
netised. 

So it was with John Tracey. Before the French- 
man interrupted his talk with Betty, his heart was 
beginning to warm, his idea was losing its rigidity, 
and his belief that he and Betty were not married 
was beginning to waver. Then the kiss and 


THE PARIS EXPRESS — ( Continued) 229 

Betty’s shiver had chilled him, and the idea that 
he and Betty were not married had become per- 
manently fixed. 

As Betty was a bad sailor he had not yet engaged 
rooms in Paris, and they had resolved to stay the 
night in Dover if the crossing should be bad. One 
glance at some cottage that they were passing told 
him that the smoke was going up almost straight; 
so, taking a telegraph form from his bag, he wrote : 
“ Hotel Continental, Paris. Reserve two single bed- 
rooms and salon. Dinner seven-thirty.” He 
thought a moment and finished : “ Dinner seven- 
thirty in restaurant. — Tracey.” Dinner in the res- 
taurant would amuse Betty, and make it easier all 
round. 

He handed her the telegram; and when she had 
read it and given it back, he said : “ We’ll be friends, 
little Betty? ” 

“ That’s what I always wished,” she answered 
coldly and untruthfully. 

She heard him give an involuntary sigh, and she 
began to feel sorry for him. 

“ You must give me a little time — John,” she 
said. “ It seems rather strange — and — I must get 
used to it — and — we’ll be awful friends.” 

She held out her hand to him, and he kissed it. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE HONEYMOON 

Betty leant back in her chair and looked at her 
husband wearily. 

They had finished their first tete-a-tete dinner at 
the Continental. Neither had eaten much, and the 
conversation had languished; for how can one eat 
with a lump in one’s throat? and how can one talk 
with a heartache? 

“ If you don’t mind,” said the girl, “ I think I’ll 
go to bed. I’ve a bit of a headache, and I don’t 
think I’ll wait for the coffee.” She looked far more 
tired than she ought to have looked after an eight 
hours’ journey from London to Paris. 

“ Poor little girl ! ” said the man, standing up 
and putting his hand on the back of her chair, ready 
to draw it away when she rose. 

“Please don’t!” answered the girl, bravely. 
“The headache’s nothing; I shall be all right to- 
morrow.” 

“ Good-night! ” said the man, when he had seen 
her to the lift. “ I hope you’ll sleep well! ” 


230 


THE HONEYMOON 


231 


“Good-night!” answered the girl. Then she 
smiled at him and whispered: “ I mean to be awfully 
happy.” 

Tracey went back to his coffee, miserable. The 
situation was so hopeless, and Betty was so brave ! 
He drank his coffee and smoked his cigarette, whilst 
his conscience wrestled with his pride. 

“ You might go upstairs to see if Betty is quite 
comfortable,” whispered his conscience. “ It is the 
least you can do.” 

“ It is dangerous! ” muttered his pride. 

“ It will be far more dangerous if you never go 
near your wife’s room,” suggested wisdom. 

“ Eh? ” said John Tracey. 

“ When you return home, the servants will talk; 
they will hint to each other that the master never 
visits his wife’s private room.” 

John knit his forehead, for this was a new light 
to him. 

“ And if the servants talk,” continued wisdom, 
“ the County will know: there are many ladies who 
gossip with their maids. And if the County learns 
that John Tracey never visits his wife’s room, they 
will say that John Tracey has discovered something 
wrong with Mrs. Tracey.” 

“ Guard your own honour! ” whispered his pride. 


232 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ Pity Betty! ” whispered conscience. 

Now Betty had her pride, just as much as John; 
but Betty’s pride belonged to that higher order 
which is not rightly pride, only self-respect, whereas 
John’s pride was that true pride which has its roots 
in egoism. Self-respect is noble, egoism is base; 
self-respect is generous, egoism is selfish; self- 
respect is reasonable, whilst egoism is the most un- 
reasonable vice in existence. 

During the journey from Calais to Paris, Betty 
had plenty of time to review the situation. She 
had seen the fallacy of John’s specious argument that 
since she had mortgaged herself to Tom Courtenay, 
she was not free to give herself to John Tracey; 
for an engagement, without the parent’s consent, 
cannot rightly be called a mortgage, and Betty be- 
lieved that Tom had only refused to free her from 
her promise through some complete misunderstand- 
ing. Besides, if a girl has promised to marry a man, 
the man has promised to provide a home for the 
girl; and if the man breaks his share of the under- 
standing by squandering his money and failing to 
provide the home he has promised, then the girl has 
surely the right to demand a release from her share 
of the undertaking. 


THE HONEYMOON 


233 


She had not attempted to set this argument 
before her husband, during the second stage of their 
journey, partly because she had every reason to 
believe that John was not amenable to argument, 
and partly because she knew that if he adopted his 
superior tone, she would be unable to state her case 
coherently. She did not attribute her husband’s 
mood to a blend of jealousy, pride, quixotism, and 
over-tiredness, as she ought to have done; but she 
put it down to some scruple or some train of Shinto 
logic. 

Above all, she realised that John had an argu- 
mentative mood during which he was very obstinate, 
and a sympathetic mood during which he was open 
to reason; and she realised that, although Betty 
his sweetheart might quickly bring him to reason, 
his “ friend ” Betty might argue till doomsday with- 
out shaking his convictions. 

So, although her English pride rebelled and her 
modesty shrank from taking any active steps, her 
sweet, warm Italian nature made her long to remove 
the misunderstanding and bring her husband back 
to his allegiance. 

She had not formed any definite plans — she had 
not even tried to form any definite plans, and she 
was far too tired to dwell on the future; she put 


234 


BETTY STANDISH 


on a loose kimono that John had given her, and took 
a Tauchnitz novel out of her wraps with the inten- 
tion of reading herself to sleep. There was a knock 
at the door. 

“ Entrez!” said Betty, looking up. 

“ Oh, John ! ” she said. The words were ridicu- 
lously inadequate to express her conflicting emotions, 
but her tone made them eloquent. After what had 
passed, her pride told her that her husband had no 
right to come to his wife’s bedroom; the sweeter 
part of her almost hoped that he had come to beg 
her forgiveness; the whole of her felt an overwhelm- 
ing shyness. 

“ I came,” said he, awkwardly, “ to see if you 
did not want something, a cup of chocolate, or — 
a brandy-and-soda.” 

The absurdity of his excuse struck her, and his 
evident embarrassment restored her self-possession; 
do what she would, she could not keep the laughter 

out of her voice: “Chocolate !” said she. 

“ Why, I’ve hardly finished dinner ! And — brandy- 
and-soda ! ” She gave a strange, choky little laugh. 

“It wasn’t really that,” he explained; “but I 
couldn’t turn in without seeing that you were 
comfortable”; and she knew from his words and 
the tone of his voice and the look in his face that 


THE HONEYMOON 235 

he had come out of kindness, and not to beg her 
forgiveness. 

Oh! I’m comfortable,” she answered quickly. 
“ Tm awfully comfortable! I’ve got everything I 
want.” She waited for him to say good-night — she 
could hardly say it first, without appearing to order 
him out of the room — but he made no move to go. 

I m awfully comfortable ! ” she repeated 
nervously. 

“ I have something I want to say. May I come 
in for a minute? ” 

If he had only begun “I’ve been a fool!” or 
“I’m wretched!” she might have smiled at him; 
but the propriety of his request made his request an 
impropriety. She hesitated one moment: then she 
realised that she could not possibly say “No!” 
Besides, she was in her kimono, with her hair 
done up. 

He came in and closed the door after him, whilst 
she moved over to one of the easy chairs and seated 
herself. “ Please sit down! ” she said; “ and please 
smoke — I like it. Please smoke! ” she insisted; “ I 
wish you to.” She felt that the fact of his sitting 
down and smoking would convert her bedroom into 
a sort of sitting-room, and make the situation less 
embarrassing. 


236 


BETTY STANDISH 


“I think you know you can trust me?” he 
began, taking out his cigarette-case. 

“ I can trust you,” answered Betty, coldly. 

“ And you know that I would not ask you to do 
anything, unless I had the strongest reasons? ” 

“Yes,” she answered, still more coldly; for he 
seemed to have the “ strongest reasons ” for every- 
thing he did. 

“ I am going to ask you to let me do two things, 
and I want you to consent without asking my 
reasons.” 

Now that the first idea of the impropriety of the 
situation had worn off, Betty found herself strangely 
indifferent. 

“ First, may I sometimes come into your room, 
just as I have to-night? You might even allow me 
to stay, sometimes, whilst you are brushing your 
hair. I am asking it as a favour,” he continued, 
as he saw her hesitation; “ and I have a reason for 
asking.” 

“ Perhaps it would be wise,” she answered — for 
his “ reason ” was obvious, and she had no desire 
that their platonic relations should be public 
property. 

“ And, may I kiss you sometimes? ” 

Again she hesitated, for his request sounded so 


THE HONEYMOON 


237 


cold-blooded. Again she saw the reasonableness of 
his proposal. “ Perhaps it would be wise,” she an- 
swered with just a tinge of cruelty. 

He watched her moodily: she had never appeared 
so sweet and desirable — even her very coldness 
attracted him. Now that he had repudiated his 
rights, retaining only two shadows as a matter of 
graciousness on her part, he felt a great longing. 
The man’s craving for possession was overpower- 
ing — even though it might be only the phantom of 
possession. “ May I have another cigarette, whilst 
you brush your hair? ” he asked. 

“ I’d rather not, to-night,” she answered. “ I’m 
exceedingly tired.” 

Then the girl felt sorry for the man; and, as he 
said good-night, she lifted her cheek to be kissed 
— but she did not blush, and he might have been 
kissing a statue. 

So the situation closed, and the platonic marriage 
was consummated. Betty had behaved just as any 
modest girl must have behaved under the circum- 
stances; Tracey had carried out the programme 
which he had planned over his coffee ; but the platonic 
marriage left both of them wretched. 

In one way, it is true, the girl experienced a 
certain sense of relief, for a bride’s sacrifice of her 


BETTY STANDISH 


238 

girlhood — although it may be a willing act of self- 
abnegation when she loves truly — is a sacrifice. 
But this sense of relief was overwhelmed in an inde- 
scribable feeling of loneliness, just as though her 
husband had deserted her; and, above all, there lay 
a supreme mortification. For in love, it is the man’s 
place to woo, the woman’s to be wooed; the man’s 
instinct to press forward, the woman’s instinct to 
hold back; and, when the man holds back, he places 
the woman in an abominably false position. 

In one way, John ought to have experienced much 
consolation in his belief that Betty was in love with 
Courtenay, and that she welcomed the present ar- 
rangement (which belief her last kiss tended to con- 
firm) ; but it is doubtful whether his belief brought 
rest — it certainly brought no sleep. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE JESUIT 

It was half-past eight when Betty woke the next 
morning, and, although she awoke with a feeling 
that something wretched had happened, a night’s 
rest had taken the edge off her mortification; before 
she had finished dressing she had almost recovered 
her spirits, and the idea of a life with the man she 
cared for, free from all maternal cares and matri- 
monial responsibilities, did not seem altogether 
unpleasant. 

All the same, she came down to breakfast expect- 
ing to feel horribly shy and self-conscious. But as 
she stepped into the hall she experienced a thrill 
of pleasure: John appeared so genuinely pleased to 
see her. He seemed to have thrown off his recent 
mood, and to have resumed that friendliness which 
had first attracted her. 

“How’s the headache?” he inquired, taking no 
pains to keep the admiration out of his eyes. 

“ Gone! ” she answered, blushing. 


239 


240 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ And you can manage breakfast — a real English 
breakfast? ” 

“ Is there any need? ” asked Betty, smiling at him. 
“ Td like rolls and coffee as well as anything.” 

“ And yet, madam, but a day ago, you enjoyed 
a hearty, wholesome English breakfast? ” 

“ They tell me, sir,” answered she, falling in with 
his humour eagerly, “ that when one is in Rome, 
one should adopt the habits of the Romans! ” 
u And since the essence of Paris lies in the fact 
that she is cosmopolitan what could be more 
Parisian than an English breakfast served with a 
French accent? ” 

“ Then, sir,” laughed Betty, “ if you will lead 
the way, I follow, for I am famished ! ” It was 
really a relief to find John so unembarrassing. 

They seated themselves and began their break- 
fast, chatting merrily, for the breakfast proved to 
be one typical of the English middle-classes — pig, 
unrelieved by even the slightest trace of the Parisian 
accent — a culinary sacrifice to the entente cordiale. 

“ Look at that dear old clergyman who’s just 
come in!” said Betty, handing John his cup of 
coffee. “ Isn’t he typical? He might be the Vicar 
of Wakefield, or the ‘ dog that bit the man ’ 
parson.” 


THE JESUIT 241 

First an English breakfast, and now the Estab- 
lished Church ! Where is he ? ” 

“ Three tables away, on your right.” 

“ Parson! ” scoffed John. “ Why, it’s a Jesuit— 
a crafty, cunning Jesuit! I must go over and speak 
to him; he used to be a great friend of mine.” 

How exciting ! ” said Betty, examining the 
priest with interest. “ Do bring him here ! I’ve 
never met a real Jesuit.” 

“What do you expect to find? He’s just like 
anyone else: 

‘Two eyes, a nose, a chin, 

With a mouth above to pop his food in.’ 

That does not mean that his mouth’s above his eyes, 
only above his chin,” he explained. 

He went over to the Jesuit; and Betty saw the 
priest look first surprised, then pleased, then inter- 
ested, and finally he rose and came across to her. 

“ I have been congratulating your husband, Mrs. 
Tracey, he said, taking her hand and looking at 
her with approval; “and I hope you will both be 
very happy.” 

She thanked him prettily, and asked him to join 
them at breakfast. 

“ You haven’t any bloaters on the table? ” asked 
the Jesuit, eyeing the dishes with suspicion. 


242 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ No! ” said she, laughing. “ It’s all bacon and 
sausages and things. But why? ” 

“ For the last twelve years I have been tormented 
by the association of your husband with bloaters, 
he answered moodily. 

“My husband and bloaters ?” repeated 

Betty. 

“ If you were a priest, Mrs. Tracey assuming 
that you can imagine yourself in such a position * 
how would you like to remember an absurd story, 
whenever you said Mass? ” 

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows 
expectantly. 

“ Whenever I mention your husband’s name in 
my intentions, I always think of bloaters. The 
obsession has become habitual with me.” 

“ Then why mention my name in your intentions 
if it gives you distractions, Father Thrapstone?” 
suggested John. 

The priest waved the objection aside — he was not 
going to be led into any side issue. “ I used to 
be a great friend of your husband’s father, Mrs. 
Tracey; and I often spent my summer holiday at 
Tracey. The chaplain would go off on his holiday, 
whilst I took John for his lessons. He was an 
excellent little boy ! ” 


THE JESUIT 243 

“Yes!” said Betty, wondering when he was 
coming to his point. 

“ Now, the Tracey menu showed a great refine- 
ment in the choice of breakfasts: one might find 
salmon, trout, whiting, and even pilchards, but never 
anything so vulgar as bloaters. You follow, Mrs. 
Tracey? ” 

“ I believe it’s much the same now. This par- 
ticular breakfast’s only an accidental orgy,” ex- 
plained Betty. 

“ Sometimes,” continued the priest, deliberately, 
“ when I took John in grammar, I would give him 
a word, and tell him to build up a sentence round 
it: for instance, I would give him the word ‘ trout,’ 
and he would write: ‘Amongst the fishes of the 
river, the trout is the most difficult to capture,’ or 
some such literary effort. 

“ Well, Mrs. Tracey, one day I gave him the 
word ‘ bloaters ’ as the theme of his composition, 
and he wrote: ‘ With a fervent prayer, the bloaters 
charged up the hill.’ ” 

“ Oh! How lovely! ” cried Betty. 

“Note the piety of the sentiment! Do you 
wonder that I think of bloaters when I mention 
Tohn Tracey? He was a most excellent little 
boy!” 


244 


BETTY STANDISH 


11 1 thought they were a kind of soldier,” pro- 
tested Tracey. 

“ Imagine a regiment of British infantry uttering 
fervent prayers as they ‘ charged up the hill ’ ! 
Don’t plead altruism as an excuse, John Tracey! ” 
and the Jesuit gave a merry chuckle. 

“ How long are you staying here, Father 
Thrapstone? ” inquired Betty. 

“ Only a day,” replied the priest. “ I am on my 
way to Rome and young Lord Rixton asked me to 
travel with him, which accounts for my staying at 
such an expensive hotel. I am hoping that every- 
one will mistake me for a rich Anglican clergy- 
man.” 

“ My wife did,” said John. 

“ How nice of you, Mrs. Tracey! And are you 
staying long?” He had fallen to, and was enjoy- 
ing his breakfast thoroughly. 

“ We are going on to a delightful little place John 
knows of; it’s called Areola, and hasn’t been dis- 
covered by the tourist, and then to Florence.” 

“ Look here, Father! ” broke in Tracey. “ The 
Bishop’s given me a raw young priest as chaplain. 
He came just before I left, and I can’t stand him! ” 

Father Thrapstone nodded his head. 

“ You know I’m still an unbeliever? ” 


THE JESUIT 245 

“ You would have told me if you had regained 
your faith,” said the Jesuit, wisely. 

“Although this Father O’Dwile upsets Gill, I 
might manage to bear him myself.” Tracey smiled, 
and then grew very grave. “ But when we come to 
dessert, he begins to lecture me about my soul.” 

Father Thrapstone sighed, for the weakness of 
all modern religion lies in some of the very young 
and enthusiastic, whose zeal overrides their charity, 
and whose earnestness overlooks courtesy. 

“ If I can get the Bishop’s consent, Father Thrap- 
stone, would it be possible for you to come for a 
time as chaplain? If you could only come for a 
year, it would give me time to build a church and 
presbytery at Coombe Ottery. I shall find a resi- 
dent chaplain extremely awkward.” 

“Oh! do come, Father Thrapstone!” urged 
Betty. 

“ The way I asked you sounds ungracious, 
Father,” added Tracey, quickly; “but you know 
how I should like to have you.” 

The Jesuit finished his coffee slowly. “ I will see 
the Father Provincial,” he answered. “ If you can 
secure the Bishop’s consent, it might be managed. 
Do you know your present Bishop personally? ” 

“ No ! ” said Tracey. 


246 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ I should advise you to see him yourself, and 
state your case fully. I will do what I can. ’ 

“It’s sweet of you, Father!” cried Betty. “I 
can’t tell you how grateful we are! ” 

The Jesuit made a motion of deprecation, as 
though to wave the thanks on one side. Then he 
smiled at the girl: “In this case, duty is a real 
pleasure, Mrs. Tracey”; and, with a “God bless 
you ! ” he went off to see about his packing, and 
the Traceys were left alone. 

“ What a dear old man! ” said Betty. “ Are all 
the Jesuits like that? ” 

“ Most of the old ones are, sweetheart. The 
younger ones are more reserved; but they are all 
absolutely unselfish.” 

“Then, why are they so unpopular?” asked 
she. 

“ Was the Founder of your religion popular, 
Betty?” 

“ No ! ” answered Betty, looking puzzled. 

“ I always think the reason of the Jesuit unpop- 
ularity is this: the Jesuits attract many of the best 
young men who believe they have a vocation, and 
no one who is not sufficiently in earnest to stand 
a fourteen years’ training can join the Order. 
The fast young Countess of Park Lane goes to the 


247 


THE JESUIT 

Jesuits in her trouble, because she knows they will 
sympathise with her; Connie of Piccadilly goes to 
them, because they will understand; old Lord 
Croesus asks their advice about making his will, 
because he knows it will be just; they are both 
successful and sought after. No Order can be very 
popular without causing jealousy; and no Order can 
devote itself to helping sinners without offending the 
rigourists.” 

“ Aren’t you rather a — a strange unbeliever, 
John?” asked Betty, smiling. 

“ I’m only just, little girl. I could say much the 
same about many of the Shinto and Buddhist 
priests.” 

They sat in silence for some moments. “ I want 
to say something, darling,” said John. “ I’m sorry 
I was so moody yesterday. I’m going to do all 
I can to make you happy. Now go and dress 
for your shopping, and don’t keep your husband 
waiting.” 

She looked at him wistfully. 

“ You’ll find me by the stairs in twenty minutes,” 
said Tracey. 

He watched her go upstairs — their rooms were on 
the first floor — and sat down to wait for her. He 
had fought his moods, and faced the situation, 


BETTY STANDISH 


248 

during the night. If Betty had fallen in love with 
a boy whom she could not possibly marry, it was 
no fault of hers. If she had been led into a hasty 
marriage with a middle-aged man whom she only 
cared for, it was only due to the girl’s ignorance. 
To take a maiden of twenty-one away from her boy 
lover, and give her in marriage to a man of Tracey’s 
age, was an enormity, and he would respect her 
innocence. 

As he sat there, he felt certain that Betty cared 
for him far more than she did for anyone except her 
father, and he saw no reason why their platonic 
marriage should not prove successful. He had 
money and position; Betty’s tastes were in sympathy 
with his; he was devoted to the girl and was deter- 
mined to make her life as happy as he could; inci- 
dentally, he would snatch as much quiet happiness as 
his honour permitted. If this unusual drama should 
ever threaten to change into a tragedy, and Betty’s 

welfare should demand his exit And he 

shrugged his shoulders. 

Such a train of thought sounds impossible, and 
it would have been impossible in most men of 
thirty-five; but Tracey’s religion had kept him 
straight whilst he was a boy, and a certain fastidious- 
ness had kept him straight during the past fifteen 


THE JESUIT 249 

years. He had kept his life under very strict con- 
trol, and he lacked both the experience and worldly 
wisdom of the ordinary man of the world. 

Father Thrapstone had not been far wrong when 
he hinted that John Tracey was an altruist. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE BARRIER 

It is unnecessary to discuss the nature of the bar- 
rier which divides the sexes; but, amongst English 
people, men and girls of the upper and middle 
classes are separated by a barrier that is very 
seldom broken down except through marriage. 

Under all ordinary circumstances, the barrier 
between man and woman is swept away by matri- 
mony; yet, even in the case of married persons, the 
wife sometimes manages to reconstruct a barrier of 
mock-modesty between herself and her husband, with 
chilling results. If this be so, it is easy to imagine 
the position of John and Betty Tracey. 

For with the Traceys — robbed even of the inti- 
macy that is inseparable from a long engagement — 
this barrier had never been destroyed or even weak- 
ened, and each day of their platonic honeymoon 
served to strengthen it. The very absence of a 
chaperon, the very fact that John could go into his 
wife’s bedroom whilst she was changing her shoes 
or brushing her hair before lunch, created an ever- 


250 


THE BARRIER 


251 

strengthening mental hedge in place of the actual 
hedge of conventional propriety. 

It must not be imagined that the couple were 
unhappy. From the commencement of their stay 
at Areola, John adopted the mental position of a 
guardian with a delightful ward; and, by the time 
they moved on to Florence, Betty had adjusted 
herself to the new conditions. She had taken up 
the thread of her girlhood with the addition of a 
husband who was merely a dear friend and inter- 
esting companion, and she had no particular wish 
to alter their mutual relations. 

Now it was inevitable that John Tracey should 
remember the cheque which he had sent to the C.O. 
of the Lowland Light Infantry on Courtenay’s 
behalf, for it is not a pleasant thing to discover that 
one has sent money to a man whose sweetheart one 
has taken; so, after some deliberation, he wrote a 
cautious letter to Tom Courtenay, explaining that 
he had sent the cheque solely on St. John Postle- 
thwaite’s suggestion and that, until after he had des- 
patched the money, he was not aware that there had 
been any understanding between Courtenay and 
Betty. Courtenay’s reply came just before the 
couple reached Florence; and, as the letter was only 


252 


BETTY STANDISH 


a courteous expression of comprehension, Tracey 
thought that there was no need to worry his wife by 
reopening a painful subject. 

They had been some ten days in Florence, and 
that morning they had climbed the heights of Fie- 
sole. They had avoided the new road with its 
sacrilegious tramway, taking the steep path by the 
Mugnone; and by the time they had visited the 
chapel where St. Francis had preached they were 
quite ready for lunch. Leaving the more preten- 
tious hotels for the tourist, they had chosen a small 
inn with a balcony which seemed to hang right over 
Florence. 

John and Betty had grown very friendly during 
the last few days, friendly almost to the verge of 
flirtation. Perhaps the warm Southern blood was 
stirring in the girl’s veins; but during the walk up 
to Fiesole, Betty had been taciturn, and as lunch 
progressed she grew more and more silent. “ I 
have a letter which I ought to show you,” she said, 
at last; and she handed her husband a letter which 
she had received that morning. 

“ Dearest Betty,” he read, “ I am frightfully 
sorry for the letter I wrote you. Of course I had no 
idea you would be married when it reached you, and 
I would not have written such a beastly letter for 


THE BARRIER 


253 

worlds if I had known you were just going to be 
married. 

“ There is no good in pretending that I was not 
in love with you, and that the idea of your marrying 
anyone else was not an awful shock to me, but I 
ought never to have written that letter, and I want 
you to forgive me. 

“ I have discovered that your husband is an 
exceedingly good sort, and I hope you will be very 
happy. 

“ The Colonel has found out that one of my in- 
vestments — some rubber plantation shares — is likely 
to turn up trumps; but my luck has come too late. 

“ I don’t want you to answer this, but send me 
a picture post card and put an ‘ F ’ on it. This will 
mean that you have forgiven my wretched letter. 

“ Yours very sincerely, 

“ Tom Courtenay.” 

John read the letter and handed it back to Betty. 
He could see that this letter released his wife from 
her engagement promises to Tom Courtenay. He 
could see that she was free to take her share of the 
married life; and yet ? 

His eyes wandered across the city that lay below 
him. It looked as though it were built of ivory, 
and silver where the sun caught it. His eyes rested 
on the dome of the cathedral, and it seemed to him 
that he was like the duomo watching over The City 


BETTY STANDISH 


254 

of Lilies. He had treated her as his ward. She 
had appeared happy as his ward. Had he a right 
to ask for more? He could guess that this letter 
had upset her, and he could see that she had hated 
showing it to him. Was he going to take advantage 
of the letter? 

Anyhow : “ I think you might send the boy his 
post card,” said Tracey, picking out a view of 
Florence from a stand of picture post cards on the 
table, and pencilling a faint “ F ” on the duomo. 

The girl held out her hand for the card, tore it 
into scraps, and flung the scraps down towards 
Florence. The sun had clouded over. “ Shall we 
take the tram back? ” said Betty. “ I’m cold.” 

That same evening, whilst Betty was writing 
home to Colonel Standish, John turned over the 
pages of the hotel visitors’ book, and found the fol- 
lowing verses on some local proverb : 

“ The woman with dark eyes may draw one dag- 
ger; she that is fair will draw many .” — Proverb 
heard at Fiesole. 


The sun, that rose at dawn 
To ripen the barley and colour the corn, 
Has kissed her locks. 

The sky, or the sea, 

Or the gentianella of Lombardy, 

Lies in her eyes. 


THE BARRIER 


255 


The peach and each lily that grows 
Have joined to borrow a hint from the rose 
To texture her cheeks. 

And, although she’s as fresh as the air 

Which passed o’er the barley and tinted her hair, 

She’s as warm — and all — 

As the juicy fruit on a sunny wall. 

“ The olive is hidden beneath her cheeks; 

The citron gleams through the strands of her hair; 

The blood of the South has darkened her lips, 

And, yet, the maiden is fair ! — 

Fair as the fire of dry beech logs, 

Fair as the flare of the sun at its height; 

Sweet as the heat of the year-old peat, 

As it glows in the heart of a winter’s night. 

“ Who’s afraid of the German maid, 

Plump as a sausage of pig’s flesh and bread? 

Who’s afraid of the English miss, 

With butter-milk passions and butter-milk kiss? 

But, he who’d be free, so the proverbs say, 

Must not look on the Lily of Fiesole! 

“ Play with the fire — the fire will burn you! 

Learn from my song, ere ’tis too late to learn you! 

One single breath of the breeze, that blew 
O’er that barley-gold hair, is like barley brew 
That steals through the senses and steals through the brain, 
And courses, for ever, through every vein: 

If you gather fresh fruit from a sun-baked wall, 

You’re a slave to that fruit, for once and for all! 

“ Toy with the flaxen-haired girl of the North, 

Or sigh with the mouse-coloured English miss; 

Or even go courting the dark Tuscan maid, 

Though it’s a dangerous sporting, you’ll find, I’m afraid. 
But — stay ! 

As you value your life, so the proverbs say, 

Do not gaze on the Lily of Fiesole! 


256 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ The sun, that rose this morn 
To kiss all the barley and play with the corn, 
Is kissing her hair. 

The sky, and the sea, 

And the gentianella of Lombardy 
Peep through her eyes. 

Still fair as each lily that blows, 

Yet the full, red blush of the radiant rose 
Now stains her cheek. 


“ And, although there may betide 
The thrust of some dagger towards eventide, 

My God! she’s as warm— and all — 

As the sweetest fruit from a sunny wall. 

If I live but the length of this summer’s day, 

'Tis life! with the Lily of Fiesole. 

“ A. J., Apl. 9th, 1908.” 

John turned over the page to see if A. J. had 
written anything more and found, as is always th$ 
case, that others had been moved to express them- 
selves in rhyme. The next poet was the inevitable 
prig: 

“ To paint this maiden sweet, it is essential 
To picture all her warmth as mere potential.” 

After this, some cheerful bounder, who had evi- 
dently known A. T., had written: 

“ She seems a darling, this Year-Old Peat Girl, 

And A. J.’s a dry old stick; 

But Peat will not raise the ghost of a blaze 
Till the fire- wood does the trick. 

“ F. S-L., Apl. 11, ’08.” 


THE BARRIER 


257 


This last verse was a vulgar truth, vulgarly ex- 
pressed; but it was a truth, nevertheless, and it made 
John Tracey think. 

Before, he had dwelt on Betty’s hesitation in ac- 
cepting him, and on the way she had shuddered 
when he kissed her in the train. Now, other recol- 
lections came into his mind: he remembered how 
she had laughed up at him when he had caught her 
in his arms and carried her off to Tracey; he remem- 
bered how she had laid herself open to his kisses in 
the garden at Coombe Lodge; and he wondered, for 
the first time, if he could possibly be mistaken. 

He had noticed that Betty possessed the same 
richness of colouring that was to be found in some 
of the fair Tuscan girls, that she had the same 
shimmer of life in her hair, the same depth in her 
eyes, the same warmth in her lips. 

Then it came to him (only he was afraid to take 
this thought too seriously) that there was a dim 
possibility that Betty might have married him 
because she loved him as he loved her; and that 
the poem of the “ Lily of Fiesole,” together with 
the gloss of the prig and the suggestion of the 
vulgarian, might all be true. 

So, just because he was honest and straight- 
forward, he put his hopes to the test, in an honest, 


BETTY STANDISH 


258 

straightforward, blundering way, and carried over 
the visitors’ book to show Betty. 

“ What do you think of this? ” he asked, placing 
the book on her writing-table. 

She read the verses through and closed the book. 
“How absurd!” said Betty. She thought a 
minute, and added: “ How horrid! ” 

“ It’s not bad for tourists’ poetry,” remarked 
Tracey. 

Betty dipped her pen in the ink, and went on 
with her letter. 

This was the completion of the barrier between 
John Tracey and his wife Betty. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


AT TRACEY 

u Beatus venter qui te portavit y et ubera quae sux - 
isti. In meditating on The Joyes of Our Ladie, 
refrain, O Religieuse, from dwelling over zealouslie 
on the Joyes of Her Maternitie. For although she 
was granted the Joye of Bearing, she received the 
ever constant Sorrowe of the Destined Crucifixion; 
and although she possessed the Joye of Nurtureing, 
she foresaw that The Flesh which she was feeding 
would become Food for The Scourges. 

u Quinimo , beati qui audiunt verbum Dei , et 
custodiunt illud. Yet if Our Ladie’s Joyes were 
converted into Sorrowes by the Shadow of The 
Roode, her Natural Grief was Tempered by Sub- 
mission to the Divine Purpose, and her Sorrowes 
were Converted into Joyes by the Consolation of 
Perfect Obedience. 

“ So, O Religieuse, if the woes of thy barrenness 
should occur to thee and the loneliness of thy state 
trouble thee, fix thine eyes on The Will of The 


259 


26 o 


BETTY STANDISH 


Divine Spouse, and Derive the Joye that ariseth 
from the Consciousness of thine Obedience.” 

Betty laid down the manuscript of “ The Medi- 
tations of Dame Barbara Tracey ” with a rebellious 
heart. It was all very well for a pious lady, who 
seemed to Betty to have been either a nun or old- 
maid, to comfort herself in this way; but it was 
quite a different matter for Betty Tracey in the first 
vigour of her womanhood. She wished that she 
had left the book in its place on the library shelf, 
beside Dame Jane’s “ Day-Book ” and other of the 
Tracey manuscripts. 

During her month abroad, Betty had been happy 
enough, for there had been things to do and things 
to see, and — except for the one thoughtless act of 
showing her that poem in the visitors’ book at Flor- 
ence — her husband had been perfectly tactful and 
absolutely devoted. But from the time of their 
homecoming, her life completely altered. 

It was not that John neglected her; it was rather 
that he schemed to spare her every worry and give 
her every pleasure; and, just where she ought to 
have taken her place as Mrs. Tracey, with certain 
worries and responsibilities that must fall on the 
mistress of a big house and the lady of the manor, 
Betty found herself more in the position of a daugh- 


AT TRACEY 


261 


ter of the house with an indulgent father. For 
John thought of Betty as his ward, and not as his 
wife; and where he would have come to his wife 
with his troubles, he spared his ward; and where 
he would have told the servants to go and ask their 
mistress, he bade them not to bother her. This, 
however, was only the lighter part of her cross. 

Betty’s real trouble began on the first evening of 
her homecoming. The couple had been welcomed 
home in the old-fashioned way; triumphal arches 
had been erected, the Coombe Ottery volunteer 
band had been waiting outside the station, and the 
tenants had taken out the horses and pulled the 
carriage up the drive; the rest of their people had 
been drawn up on the terrace, and there had been 
speeches and much drinking of healths. 

Then, as the climax, the youngest married woman 
amongst the tenants — her husband was a small 
farmer, and they had been married a twelve-month 
— had come forward, carrying her baby. “ If you 
please, ma’am,” the girl had said, holding out her 
baby, “ this is the youngest on the estate, and I 
pray that God may bless you as He has blessed 
me ! ” It had been a pretty scene, prettily contrived, 
but it had brought shame and confusion on Betty. 

Only that morning she had gone down to see her 


262 


BETTY STANDISH 


husband’s old nurse, and the woman had told her 
how the bells had been rung and the people had 
grown wild with delight when John was born. “ If 
I may make so bold, ma’am,” the nurse had added, 
“ I keep on praying that they bells may ring again, 
for we dearly need a Tracey.” 

This was the atmosphere that surrounded Betty; 
for, unless the Traceys had an heir, the property 
would go to Heaven knows who, and the whole 
estate seemed to throb with anxiety. If the girl 
had only known that she might expect to fulfil her 
duty sooner or later, if she had been like other 
wives, Betty would have smiled at all this hurry; 
if she had known that she should be childless 
through some unkindness of Nature, she might have 
borne her trouble with some of the resignation that 
Dame Barbara had preached; but Betty realised that 
she was strong and healthy — the very woman to bear 
a healthy heir — and yet, unless a miracle converted 
her husband, she was doomed to remain child- 
less. 

It was not only the wish to do her expected duty 
that troubled the girl; there was an infinitely 
stronger desire — the desire which Nature has im- 
planted as an overwhelming instinct in every real 
woman — the desire to have a baby for her sake, for 


AT TRACEY 


263 

her husband’s sake, and above all for the baby’s 
own sake. 

So, when Betty ardently longed for a baby, she 
was absolutely sweet, natural, and womanly. Her 
life, with its two duties of filling the flower-vases 
(this might well have been left to Gill) and visiting 
the cottagers, was empty; and her life craved for 
a baby, or the thoughts of a baby, to fill it. Added 
to this, there was the subtle sense of shame that 
must haunt any young wife in Betty’s position. 

Again Betty took “ The Meditations of Dame 
Barbara,” and turned over the pages. She won- 
dered if Dame Barbara had been a nun, and 
whether her ideas about u the loneliness of the 
state ” depicted the usual feelings of those who 
lived the life of celibacy. No! She could hardly 
have been a nun, for the next page but one con- 
tained a meditation for “ She who liveth in the 
world and keepeth herself unspotted,” and there 
were other meditations which might have been 
written by a married woman. Gradually her mind 
drifted away from Dame Barbara and fixed itself 
on her own case, and she sat looking dreamily over 
the park, with the book lying neglected on her lap. 

It seemed so hard that, when John had caught 
her love and won her love by his sheer personality, 


264 BETTY STANDISH 

he should leave her to face the real battle of life 
alone. Her life and thoughts were as pure as 
snowflakes ; but she loved her husband intensely, 
and, just as the snow melts when it reaches the 
warm earth, so ought her life to melt into the life 
of marriage. She felt that her present state was 
not natural, and she knew that it was not what God 
had intended. She had given herself to John, and 
with that her initiative must end. It was John’s 
part to take her and love her and teach her the 
secrets of life. 

Until they had started on their honeymoon, John 
had been everything that her heart could wish for. 
Then there had been a sudden change, and she won- 
dered what had caused this change. Of course, 
John’s change had dated from the time that she had 
told him of her engagement to Tom Courtenay and 
showed him Tom’s letter; but she did not believe 
that her husband could still imagine that there was 
any moral bar to their marriage. The idea was too 
utterly absurd, and she could not think of anything 
else which could have caused the alteration in his 
behaviour. She loved her husband so much, and 
cared for Courtenay so little, that the true reason 
of John’s conduct never even entered her head, and 
she was like a person caught in an invisible net — 


AT TRACEY 


265 

she could not see the meshes, and she could not 
think of any way in which she could break through 
the meshes. 

Betty looked out of the window and whistled 
softly. “ Peter !” she called: “ Peter ! ” And with 
a rush and a scramble Peter scampered through the 
hall and flung himself on her lap. He had grown 
wonderfully well behaved, had Peter, and as a rule 
he would not have attempted to jump on Betty’s 
lap, but this was clearly an exceptional occasion. 

She hugged him close. “ What would you do, 
Peter,” she asked, “ if you were caught in a horrid 
rabbit-net, and you couldn’t see the net, and you 
couldn’t see how to get out? ” 

Peter gave a little whine, as though to say that 
he would bark for his master to let him out. 

“ But I can’t bark, Peter; and, besides, it isn’t 
really a net, it’s more like the ‘ great gulf fixed ’ in 
the Bible — I can’t come to him, and he can’t come 
to me.” 

“Oh! it’s quite simple,” said Peter. “Get 
him to unfix the gulf — pull out the pegs, or cut the 
string or something ! ” 

“ But he can’t, dear! A gulf isn’t like a rabbit- 
net— it’s like a river. John’s one side of the Otter, 
and Pm the other; and the water makes such a noise 


266 


BETTY STANDISH 


that we can’t hear each other. If I try to tell him, 
he’ll only ask me to trust him and leave everything 
to him, and I shan’t be able to say anything more. 
Girls can’t shout across rivers, Peter.” 

“ It’s quite simple,” said Peter. “ Ask him to 
wade across ! ” 

She squeezed Peter hard. u If I only could, 
little dog. If we could only be on the same side 
of the river for one moment, and he put his arm 
round me! Oh! I’m miserable, Peter,” she sobbed, 
hiding her face in his coat: “ Miserable! ” 

Peter wriggled round to lick her face; then he 
pricked up his ears, for he heard someone coming. 

Betty shifted her seat swiftly, so that her back 
should be towards the light and her eyes in the 
shadow, and, catching up Dame Barbara’s Medi- 
tations, she slipped the book under her and sat on 
it. If John should happen to notice that her eyes 
were red, he must not connect their redness with 
Dame Barbara. 

“ I have made out the list of the people I want 
you to ask for the house party,” said John, hand- 
ing her a sheet of paper. “ With the exception of 
St. Cyre and the Foresythes, who are old friends of 
mine, most of the people have something to do with 
the county.” 


AT TRACEY 


267 

Betty read through the list of invitations. Some 
of the people she knew slightly, others were com- 
plete strangers to her, but she had seen most of 
the names in the society papers — and with an effort 
she got the control of her voice. 

“ They’re an awfully smart lot,” she remarked 
doubtfully. 

“ They’re people we ought to ask, dear,” he 
answered. “ Of course you can add anyone you 
like, and I haven’t put down either your father or 
the Postle.” 

“ I don’t expect dad will be in England. I met 
him this morning, and Colonel Ferrier has asked 
him to go to Algiers in his yacht, and Mr. Postle- 
thwaite will probably go too.” 

“ Then why not ask young Courtenay? ” 
Tracey’s voice was quite casual, but he made the 
suggestion with a set purpose. 

“ I’d rather not,” said Betty. 

“ Why, dear? Those letters we got at Florence 
were awfully decent, and Postle tells me the boy’s 
doing very well. I think it would be a nice action 
on our part.” 

“ If — you — wish,” stammered Betty. 

“ I do wish,” said John, stooping over her and 
kissing her eyes. “ Don’t wait lunch for me. I’ve 


268 BETTY STANDISH 

some business in Coombe Ottery, and I may be 
late.” 

“ Oh ! Peter. Can’t you see ! ” cried Betty, as 
the door closed after her husband. “ He’s so 
awfully kind, and yet he’s miles away from me.” 
And Peter snuggled up to her. 

John Tracey covered the mile and a half that 
separated Tracey from the market-place in Coombe 
Ottery in just over fifteen minutes; for when one 
has been considering a plan for a couple of months, 
there is much relief in definite action. 

He had seen, especially since their return to 
Tracey, that Betty was unhappy. He had learnt the 
reason of her unhappiness from Courtenay’s relent- 
less logic : 

I know you loved me when you promised to 
marry me. I know you loved me last time you let 
me kiss you. I know you loved me when you sacri- 
ficed yourself to Tracey.” These were only state- 
ments. Then came the proof— u I know this because 
you are not the girl to love and then change your 
mind.” 

Then, the sight of Betty’s tears, and the suspicion 
that she had been pouring out her sorrows to 
Peter, had been the final touch which fixed his de- 
cision and told him that it was time for action. 


AT TRACEY 


269 

Acting on the wise principle which makes the 
carpenter “ measure twice and cut once ’’—because 
if the board be once cut, and there should happen 
to be some small miscalculation in the measurement, 
it is impossible to re-cut the board any longer — he 
intended to bring Betty and Courtenay together, and 
make certain that his measurement of the situation 
was accurate. 

In the meantime, he must be commencing his 
preparations, for his plan must be carried out de- 
liberately, without the chance of a single flaw escap- 
ing his notice, and without the possibility of detec- 
tion. 

Now there is a certain drug which is known to 
Eastern physicians, and better known to Indian 
poisoners because it is a vegetable extract which 
almost defies analysis. A small dose of this drug 
— we will call it “ datura,” although that is not 
really its name, and it is far more deadly — a small 
dose of this drug will produce a refreshing sleep 
with no bad after-effects; an overdose will ensure 
Nirvana. Few English medical men have any prac- 
tical experience of “ datura,” and very few would 
be rash enough to prescribe so deadly a poison. 
Fortunately for his purpose, John happened to have 
a “ datura ” prescription, which had been given 


270 


BETTY STANDISH 


him by his Japanese doctor for a severe attack of 
insomnia consequent on Biwa malaria, and this he 
took to the Coombe Ottery doctor. 

He explained that he had suffered from severe 
insomnia during the past six weeks — omitting to 
say that this was due to mental and not to 
physical causes — and, after some trouble, per- 
suaded the doctor to get him a concentrated solu- 
tion. 

u I do not like prescribing drugs for insomnia, 
Mr. Tracey/’ said the medical man. “ They are 
likely to become a habit. I do not like prescribing 
drugs which I do not know personally, least of all 
such dangerous drugs as ‘ datura.’ I do not even 
know whether there is such a thing as a ‘ datura ’ 
habit.” 

“ Do I look like a man who would take to 
drugs? ” asked John, wearily. 

“ Some of the best and cleverest characters fall 
victims to the drug habit, Mr. Tracey, and I do 
not like the idea.” 

“ If I could only once get into the habit of 
falling asleep, as soon as I go to bed! ” said John, 
thoughtfully. “ Well, I’ll give you my word that, 
if I can’t cure myself within four months, I’ll leave 
off taking the drug.” 


AT TRACEY 


271 


“Thank you!” answered the doctor; and they 
fell to discussing “ datura,” the doctor asking many 
questions, and John giving all the information in 
his power. “ You understand why I came to you, 
instead of asking the chemist to make up the pre- 
scription? ” concluded Tracey. 

“A chemist may be entirely trustworthy; but 
chemists have assistants, and assistants have friends, 
and ‘ datura ’ is 1 datura.’ You have acted very 
wisely, Mr. Tracey!” 

“ I’m glad you think so,” answered John. 
“ You’ll send on the stuff? Good-bye! ” 

“ Remember! Place one ounce of the solution 
in an eight-ounce bottle ; fill up with water, and your 
dose will be a small wineglassful. Be sure to keep 
the concentrated solution locked up ! Good-bye, Mr. 
Tracey! ” 

As he walked home, John reviewed his action 
carefully. Within a few days, he would have eight 
ounces of sleep in one bottle, and seven ounces of 
undiluted Nirvana in another bottle, and what could 
be more simple than to mistake one bottle for the 
other? The very publicity he had secured through 
his visit to the doctor would proclaim the mistake to 
be an accident. 

Thus, without a breath of scandal, Betty would 


272 BETTY STANDISH 

be free, and a useless man would have done his 
duty. 

There had been an error, with its consequent evil 
and unhappiness. If there had been any chance of 
himself righting the error and removing the unhap- 
piness, then his self-destruction would be the shirk- 
ing of responsibility and the result of cowardice; 
but, since the evil could only be removed by his 
death, and his death would bring happiness, his self- 
destruction was the only honourable course. 

There were, however, two honourable necessities 
before he sought the way out. The first demanded 
an absolute certainty of Betty’s affection for Court- 
enay; the second demanded that Betty should be 
instructed in the management of the estate. These 
two essentials secured, the property would pass to 
a happy girl with a young husband and probable 
children. The ill-starred family of the Traceys 
would cease, and the family of the Courtenay- 
Traceys reign in their stead. 

Apart from the ethics of the case (and, far above 
the ethics of the case) Betty would be happy. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


DESTINY 

Partly through the fear of a General Election, and 
partly because John had found his hands full, the 
house party had been postponed; and December and 
January had passed, bringing a new interest into 
Betty’s life and a great peace to John. For instead 
of being carried along by circumstances, John had 
taken the course of events into his own hands, and 
things seemed to be turning out exactly as he had 
planned. 

His was an unselfish scheme and, in a way, a 
noble scheme. He realised that Betty and Courtenay 
had instinctively chosen each other as husband and 
wife, and the more he thought over the matter, 
the more he realised that this was the course of 
natural selection; for, if Courtenay lacked the virtues 
of caution and prudence, he was both dashing and 
manly, and Betty had sufficient strength of char- 
acter for the pair of them. Then he, John Tracey, 
so soon as he had trained Betty to take her position 
as mistress of Tracey, would step aside and leave 
273 


274 


BETTY STANDISH 


Tom and Betty to marry and found a new family of 
Courtenay-Traceys, which would carry on the best 
traditions of the Traceys whilst it lacked the Tracey 
faults and the Tracey luck. 

As the winter passed, John became able to 
review the situation dispassionately. Suppose he 
had behaved as most men would have behaved! 
Suppose he had indulged in an outburst of anger 
over Courtenay’s letter, and had then made his 
peace with Betty and gone on with the honeymoon 
as though nothing had happened? With his in- 
herited temperament and his knowledge of the 
Tracey curse, he would have brooded over Betty’s 
affection for Courtenay until he became wildly 
jealous. Every time he kissed Betty or caressed 
Betty, he would have turned the knife in his wound 
until it became a festering sore. Finally, he would 
have made life unbearable both for himself and 
his bride. He seemed to see “ The Book of the 
Traceys open before him, and the writing: 

John Mary Tracey separated from his wife 
through motives of jealousy, so much as the law 
did permit.” 

Sometimes when he was sitting up late at night, 
sometimes in the early morning, John would think 
over his plan very carefully and try to find some 


DESTINY 


275 

flaw in his reasoning, but he could detect none. To 
marry a girl and then deprive her of the intimate 
confidences of her husband was clearly wrong, except 
as a makeshift; to deprive a girl of the blessings 
of motherhood was clearly wrong, except as a make- 
shift. On the other hand, to consummate their mar- 
riage, knowing that Betty loved someone else (and 
that she was not the sort of girl to love and then 
change her mind), was an impossibility; for, al- 
though he did not for one moment imagine that 
Betty would ever be unfaithful to her husband, he 
knew himself far too well to venture on such a step. 

So John took up his work bravely and honestly, 
and prepared to leave his wife happy and his house 
in order; and Betty found that she was no longer 
a guest at Tracey, but the mistress to whom every- 
thing was referred and whose advice was sought on 
every subject. 

This does not mean that Betty’s views had 
changed since the day when she had cried over 
Dame Barbara’s Meditations, or that she had be- 
come reconciled to the idea of the platonic marriage, 
but simply that she had become too busy to worry 
about her troubles. There were farm-houses to be 
repaired, farms to be drained, cottages to be built, 
and the lake to be finished; and on all these points 


BETTY STANDISH 


276 

John consulted his girl-wife so that she might be 
prepared to succeed to the property. Give a woman 
even the shadow of an administration, let her dole 
out alms or manage a girls’ club, and she will be 
keen; but let her share in the active administration 
of a large estate, and she will become absorbed. 

Then there were the ordinary social duties, calls, 
lunches, dinners, and so on, which took up a con- 
siderable time; and when it was possible John either 
rode with her or drove her in the mail-phaeton. 
Besides, she saw Colonel Standish every day until 
he left for the Mediterranean. 

And last, but not least, John had felt compelled 
to keep his promise to his publishers, and had made 
Betty his partner in his work on Japan. This last 
labour gave Betty her keenest pleasure; for, al- 
though John might sit up whilst his wife slept and 
create with infinite pains and infinite toil, it was 
Betty’s portion to revise and vivify; and it was 
Betty’s light touch and nimble brain that gave in- 
terest to her husband’s solid knowledge, and life to 
his serious convictions. In this way, at least, Betty 
had achieved her ideal of the samurai’s lady. 

Now it is impossible for two persons to plan and 
work and write together without either repelling or 
attracting each other; and, since the Traceys were 


DESTINY 


277 

created to attract each other, the winter brought 
them very close together. If they had become com- 
rades when they first met, they grew into much closer 
comrades now; and this comradeship was built upon 
a double foundation, for Betty found that her hus- 
band showed a tender thoughtfulness towards her 
and a wise consideration towards others, whilst John 
not only discovered that his wife became more and 
more adorable day by day, but he also found that 
there was an uncommonly clever little brain tucked 
away under Betty’s barley-coloured hair. 

Under normal circumstances, Nature plays its 
part in the right kind of married love, and Nature 
was quite ready to play its part with John and 
Betty. Under normal circumstances, married per- 
sons cannot adopt platonism through prudential or 
selfish motives without spoiling their love. But pas- 
sion is the fruit, and not the cause of true love; 
and, since neither John nor Betty was inspired by 
selfish motives, their affection increased steadily. It 
was pathetic to see the way in which they haunted 
each other’s society — at first with some excuse, such 
as “ I want to see you about this,” or “ I wish to 
ask you about that ” — and then without any excuse, 
except the unspoken understanding that they were 
friends and liked to be together. 


278 BETTY STANDISH 

You ask why these two did not break down the 
barrier? 

My dear sir, if you were formally married to a 
maiden whom you loved intensely, and you believed 
that she was heart and soul in love with another man, 
and you (please stretch your imagination) were suf- 
ficiently Oriental in your ideas of self-sacrifice 
to plan suicide as the only way of setting her 
free, would you dare to risk the slightest famili- 
arity ? 

And you, my dear madam, if you were a girl of 
twenty-one, and were married to a man like John 
Tracey ? 

Is not it perfectly self-evident that whenever Betty 
began to be a tiny bit affectionate — and she did now 
and again — that John would at once put it down to 
her sweetness or trust or innocence, and that he 
would draw himself into his shell lest he should be 
tempted to forget himself? And is not it self-evident 
that this would immediately react on Betty like a 
spray of iced water? 

Of course any humanist could tell you that a 
platonic affection between two persons who were 
physically attracted to each other must break down; 
and that, sooner or later, something would be 
bound to happen which would show John that 


DESTINY 


279 


Betty’s love was not platonic, and that her affections 
were centred on him alone; but the danger lay in 
the fact that the “ sooner ” must be sooner than his 
self-destruction, for the “ later ” would be too late. 

January and February were past, the house party 
was just over, and John sat thinking in his study. 
Betty had gone to bed, tired out, and Father 
Thrapstone would not arrive until the following day, 
so for this one evening Tracey was alone. 

His guests had disappointed him. Men whom he 
had thought keen and clever, ten years ago, had 
become selfish and blase; the women had lost their 
refinement; in short, his old friends had developed 
into a really smart clique, with argot and horse-play 
a,nd morals to match. But his thoughts passed 
Qver these, and fixed themselves on his wife and 
Courtenay. 

He had been seeking for trouble, and therefore 
he had found trouble. He had expected to see 
Betty and Courtenay drawn together, and therefore 
he had seen them drawn together. He had over- 
looked the fact that Betty had nothing in common 
with the St. Cyre and Foresythe set, whilst the St. 
Cyre and Foresythe people had practically ignored 
their hostess; and he had failed to realise that 


28 o 


BETTY STANDISH 


Betty had turned to Courtenay for companionship, 
only because she had no one else to turn to. 

John hunted out a tin of fine Japanese tobacco 
and one of those small Oriental pipes which hold 
just enough to punctuate the periods in a train of 
thought, and smoked a pipeful. Yes! He liked 
Courtenay and had found him cheery, unassuming, 
and honestly devoted to Betty. He wondered 
whether the pain which he suffered, as he thought 
of these two, was jealousy; and he concluded (after 
much introspection) that, since he liked the one, 
loved the other, and wished to do his best for both, 
it could not be actual jealousy; but he concluded 
that his feelings might easily develop into jealousy, 
and that it was full time for him to take his 
intended step. 

He seemed to hear two voices — one arguing like 
his father’s, and urging him to face the troubles 
which had been sent him and bear them bravely — 
the other recalling the Tracey curse, and remind- 
ing him that he was a man, that his life was his 
own, and that he had no right to bring misery on 
her who was dearest to him. Following the Shinto 
rule, which bade him submit these whisperings to 
the infallible test of conscience, he saw that the 
second voice was infallibly right. 

For a time he indulged in regrets, wondering 


DESTINY 


281 


what would have happened if he had met Betty ten 
or twelve years ago, and picturing the change that 
the meeting might have made in his life, and 
wondering what would have happened now if there 
had been no Courtenay in the background. He 
knew that he had attracted the girl during their 
first acquaintance, and that she had felt a strong 
friendship towards him, and he wondered if this 
might not have grown into something that was 
warmer. Then he realised that these thoughts were 
unwholesome, mixed himself a night-cap, lit a 
cigar, and fell to work making plans for the end. 

To start with, Betty must be left without the 
slightest suspicion of his suicide — that is to say, 
his conduct must not be distant, or moody, or even 
thoughtful. He was devoted to her, she knew of 
his devotion, and it would be wise for him to show 
his devotion; for if she saw him both devoted and 
happy, she would not imagine he wished for death; 
so long as he avoided any physical caress, he 
might even venture to be affectionate. He remem- 
bered how, on that first September morning after 
he had met her, he had come home and planned 
that their friendship should be a pleasant comedy. 
Well, it had not been a comedy, and he did not 
mean it to end in a tragedy. It should be drama, 
and since drama is strongest when it is acted 


282 


BETTY STANDISH 


naturally, he would act naturally. He would say 
what he thought (with reservations) and he would 
behave as he felt (with reservations) ; he would 

throw himself into his part, and John smiled, 

for he found himself looking forward to the last 
act with an absurd interest, and, as such a state of 
mind did not seem normal, he took a prescribed dose 
of the sleeping draught, for the first time, and went 
off to bed. 

As intellects go, John Tracey was no fool; but, 
like ninety-nine men out of a hundred, he reasoned 
without testing the foundations on which he built 
his reasoning. This is a common error with most 
historians, many scientists, and nearly all contro- 
versialists. Some “ fact ” is accepted without 
question; on this a perfectly logical argument is 
erected, ending in a perfectly logical conclusion — 
the only fault being that the “ fact ” is often fancy, 
and the premises rotten. 

Tom Courtenay’s letter had said that Betty loved 
him during their engagement, and that Betty was 
not the sort of girl to love and then change her mind. 
Betty herself had said in desperation: “Do you 
think I’d have accepted him unless I’d liked him?’’ 
On these sketchy premises John had founded his 
arguments and planned to play Destiny. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 

During the night the “ datura ” acted up to its 
reputation, producing first unconsciousness, and 
then a deep natural sleep from which John woke up 
thoroughly refreshed; so he came down to break- 
fast in his brightest spirits, with a firm determina- 
tion to say what he thought, act as he felt, and 
behave naturally. 

He kissed Betty, helped himself to some grilled 
sole, and passed her a pile of letters with an admoni- 
tion to read, mark, and answer them, for he intended 
to be busy. 

“ Do you realise what we have done, Betty? ” he 
asked. 

“ No! ” answered she, noticing a difference in his 
manner. 

“ We’ve finished our book, and it’s a real good 
book too ! ” 

“ So we have ! ” she replied, smiling happily. 

“ I don’t believe you realise a bit what we’ve 

283 


BETTY STANDISH 


284 

done, little woman. You and I have written an 
absolutely original book in a little over two months 
— two months and five days, to be exact. It’s noth- 
ing short of a miracle! ” 

There was a new ring in John’s voice, a new 
look in his face: or, rather, the John whom Betty 
had first known seemed to have come back to her. 
She wondered if the completion of the book could 
have made this alteration; if so, the result of the 
miracle was far more miraculous than the miracle 
itself. 

“ Hawkins once told me,” continued Tracey, 
“ that anyone who makes a series of different efforts 
— articles, short stories, and so on — can get through 
a tremendous amount of work; but that if the same 
man were to make one big continuous effort — that’s 
to say, a book — he could hardly hope to average 
more than five hundred words a day. Of course, 
that includes alterations and re-writing.” 

She borrowed her husband’s pencil, and made 
some calculations on the back of one of the en- 
velopes. “December, thirty-one days; January, 
thirty-one plus five; that makes sixty-seven,” she 
read. “ Then, take off four days for the house 
party — you didn’t do any work for at least four 
days ” 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 285 

“ Steady! Hawkins meant to include off-days in 
the average. The book won’t be finished until this 
morning. Call it sixty-eight days.” 

“ Well, sixty-eight days into eighty-one thousand 
words — I counted them up yesterday — that’s one 
thousand one hundred and ninety words a day. 
John, you’ve actually averaged one thousand one 
hundred and ninety words a day! ” 

“Have I?” he answered dryly. “I rather 
thought that you wrote the book! ” 

“Don’t tease!” she answered, blushing. “I 
know I did interfere an awful lot; but,” she laughed, 
making a face at him, “ you encouraged me — it was 
your fault! ” 

“ Don’t you see, darling,” he explained, taking 
hold of her hand that held the pencil. “ I’ve been 
thinking over the subject of the Japanese character 
for years, and I simply wrote down my thoughts 
in a sort of logical sequence; then you came and 
split up the paragraphs for me, and altered the sen- 
tences until they were readable. That’s re-writing 
the book; it’s almost the most difficult part, and, if 
I’d had to do it, I should have taken quite a twelve- 
month over the job, and done it badly in the end. 
The subject matter may be mine, but the literary 
part’s yours; it’s our book.” 


286 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ I never thought ” she stammered. “ Do you 

really mean ? ” 

John took the pencil from her and wrote on the 
back of the envelope: “ Japanese Character from an 
English Standpoint, by Betty and John Tracey.” 
“ That’s the title,” he said. 

“No!” she cried, recapturing the pencil and 
writing: “Japanese Character from an English 
Standpoint, by John and Betty Tracey!” “You 
wrote the book and I only helped; you must play 
the game! Oh, John! I am proud!” 

“ I formulate and you revise, even to the end! ” 
he laughed. 

Then, since 1908 had been a year of limerick 
competitions, he added: 

“ There once was a lady, and she 

Revised for her husband, John T : 

She’s twisted my title, 

Until it is frightful, 

Through sheer, cussed consistency! ” 

Betty raised her chin, and looked at her husband 
with a divine impudence that set him on flame. 
Then she chanted her reply : 

“There once was a sweet girl who’d got, 

As her husband, a Don Quixo-ot. 

He’d preach, argue and twirl, 

Till he’d made this sweet girl — 

Perfectly miserable! No! I suppose I must rhyme: 

Amazed at his altruist rot!— There!” 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 287 

What with her look and her limerick, and with 
his new-formed resolution to behave naturally, John 
felt his brain turning, and he knew that within a few 
moments he would catch Betty into his arms or do 
something equally foolish; so, with an excuse that 
he must start his work choosing the pictures for the 
illustration of the book, he kissed Betty’s hand, and 
went off to his study. 

Instinctively locking his study door after him, he 
threw himself into his easy chair. By Jove! if he 
had yielded to his mad impulse and embraced Betty 

as he wanted to ! He took out his handkerchief 

and mopped his forehead. 

What a fool he had nearly made of himself ! For 
Betty’s limerick had been sheer light-hearted non- 
sense, and her look had been the look that any 
excited girl might have given the man who had just 
finished writing a book with her. If he had kissed 
Betty, and she had shrunk away from him — he could 
almost see her shrinking from him with a half- 
pained, half-disgusted expression — he dared not 
have carried out his plans for weeks lest she should 
suspect that he was not happy and imagine suicide. 
It must have been the effects of the “ datura ” that 
had upset him! Damn the “ datura ” ! Then, with 
an effort, he got out his portfolio of pictures chosen 


288 BETTY STANDISH 

out for the final selection, unlocked the door, and 
set to work. 

The publisher’s original suggestion, that he 
should use the illustrations to show the influence 
of Buddhism on the Arts of Japan,' had made John 
smile; for the idea was such an obvious inversion 
of horse and cart. He turned over the manuscript 
so as to refresh his mind and to see exactly what he 
had written. Yes! his heading of the chapter was 
right — “ The Influence of the Japanese Tempera- 
ment on Buddhist Art ” — and the commencement of 
the chapter was satisfactory: 

“ If an Essay on Nature — that is to say the elab- 
oration of some phase of Nature such as the Majesty 
of the storm thundering amongst the pine-trees, or 
some aspect of Nature such as the Purity of the 
lotus rising above the dark-toned waters — if an Essay 
on Nature be the ideal in Art; then Buddhism may 
be called the Religion of Art. For Buddhism is an 
Essay on Nature, with man as the essayist. 

“ In the highest state, the human soul becomes 
merged in the great principle of life; but, in the 
highest earthly state, the almost perfect man 
becomes the friend of the pine-tree, the brother of 
the sambur, with the feeding ducks as his little sisters 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 289 

— for these same ducks may be the transmigrated 
souls of fellow Buddhists who have quacked away 
their human probation in aimless chatter — and these 
same ducks may live so worthily that their souls will 
migrate from state to state, until they finally pass 
from the perfect man into the divine essence.” 

John paused to smile, for the sentence about the 
Buddhists quacking away their probation in aimless 
chatter had been Betty’s, and her touch pleased him. 
How aimless this Buddhist idea of almost endless 
transmigration, only to be absorbed into the essence 
and lose all individuality, seemed when compared 
with the more virile creed of Shinto ! 

“ From Chinese Buddhism Japan derived her Art 
and almost immediately stamped it with her own 
characteristics. Whether the ideals remained true 
to the original Buddhist conception, whether they 
became lost in the cult of the sword and the doings 
of heroes, or whether they degenerated into the 
picturing of tea-house and theatre, the expression 
became very human and indescribably dainty. 

“ Is the Buddha less lofty because he has become 
endowed with a sense of humour? Is the hero less 
noble because he has quaint dealings with demons? 


290 


BETTY STANDISH 


Are the incidents of the highway and the fascinations 
of the geisha the worse for refinement of treat- 
ment? ” 

Tracey felt that his work had been made very 
simple for him. 

He must start his book with examples of the 
original Buddhist ideals, and he could not do better 
than pick out four or five of his superbly dignified 
Chinese paintings for reproduction. He must go 
on to show the Japanese Buddhist development in 
the painting of Saints and the rendering of Nature. 
Next he must illustrate the Shinto movement in 
praise of doughty deeds, chivalry, and patriotism. 
Lastly he must show the popular movement which 
is known as “ The School of the Mirror of the 
Passing World.” 

So the morning passed; and anyone who has 
chosen a couple of dozen pictures out of a large 
number — honestly considering the pros and cons — 
will understand that the four hours between break- 
fast and lunch passed very rapidly. Lunch was spent 
in the discussion of the various methods of repro- 
duction, of which John knew nothing and Betty far 
less. The afternoon was devoted to the drafting of 
a descriptive list of illustrations, over which John 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 291 

and Betty grew as thick as thieves; and, towards 
evening, Father Thrapstone came. 

He came like a breath of something wholesome — 
iodine or eucalyptus— and he was taken into the 
heart of the family, and the three talked of such 
wholesome things as politics, naval reform, the 
King of Spain, and history. After dinner they 
retired to the library, and John brought out the 
pictures he had chosen as the illustrations of his 
book. 

“ Honestly, I don’t like these things,” said Father 
Thrapstone, after he had examined about a dozen. 
“ I do not pretend to understand them, and they do 

not appeal to me. How shall I state my case ? 

The pictures seem to me to be lifeless.” 

“ Perhaps it’s the shadows and shading that 
you miss?” suggested John. “There are neither 
shadows nor shading in Oriental Art.” 

Father Thrapstone took up one of the paintings 
and examined it carefully. “ Yes! ” he said with a 
chuckle. “ I knew there was something wrong! ” 

“ May not the shadows and shading in pictures 
which are painted on a flat surface be wrong? ” 

“O! ye shades (and shadings) of Raphael!” 
laughed the Jesuit. “ This is a revolutionary idea 
of yours, John Tracey ! ” 


292 


BETTY STANDISH 


Tracey helped himself to a fresh cigarette, and 
passed the box to Father Thrapstone. “ The sub- 
ject is a big one,” he owned, “ and there is some- 
thing to be said on both sides; but, starting with 
the Ancient Egyptians, the whole of the Eastern 
artists shrank from painting any suggestion of 
shading on a flat surface. They felt that it gave a 
spurious illusion of bas-relief. But I’ll show you 
exactly what I mean.” 

He hunted out a small drawing of a geisha — 
explaining that the sketch had been made by an 
Englishman, in imitation of the Japanese manner, 
and was consequently singularly flat. Then he 
made a tracing in pencil, shaded in some rough 
shading, and handed the two drawings to the Jesuit. 

“ I quite see that this particular design will not 
bear shading and shadow,” acknowledged Father 
Thrapstone, determined to advocate his cause; 
“ but that does not show that Velasquez, Raphael, 
and the other great ones were wrong. Look at 
Mrs. Tracey! Half her face is in shadow, the rest 
is shaded.” 

“ My wife may be a ‘ perfect picture,’ your 
reverence; but Mrs. Tracey is not depicted on a flat 
surface.” 

“ What he’s trying to say,” explained Betty, “ is 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 293 

that I’m more like a living statue — you can walk 
round me and examine the back. I think he’s also 
trying to pay me a compliment, but I’m not quite 
certain.” 

Father Thrapstone chuckled softly to himself: 
Mrs. Tracey was evidently a person after his 
heart. 

“ What I was trying to say,” continued John, 
“ when my wife interrupted me, was that if a 
Japanese were making a statue of Mrs. Tracey, he 
would aim at full modelling and full relief; but if 
he were painting her, he would consider that he 
was translating her portrait on to a flat surface, 
and try to keep the flatness of the surface. A 
Japanese of the old school would consider half the 
European paintings to be imitations of bas-relief, 
he would consider the rest as rather vulgar attempts 
to imitate a view seen through an open window. 

I hope I’m not boring you ! ” 

“ I have noticed,” answered the Jesuit, “ that a 
man never asks whether he is boring one, unless 
he is certain that his conversation is particularly 
interesting.” 

“ When a European speaks of the Japanese work 
as being decorative, he shows that he does not under- 
stand his subject. Of course, all Japanese painting 


BETTY STAN DISH 


294 

is decorative; but this is not the quality that the 
painter has aimed at. The particular quality in the 
true Japanese painting is its literary character.” 

Father Thrapstone sighed. “ One must not look 
for realism? One must not look for truthfulness? 
One must not look for decoration? But one must 
look for a certain something which you call ‘ liter- 
ary character ’ ? The whole idea sounds rather 
mad!” 

John chose out thre« or four of the paintings. 
“ Notice the absolute fidelity in the drawing of these 
flowers and in the detail of those carp ! Notice the 
wonderful realism of this impressionist sketch of 
frogs swimming in a brook! You may take it for 
granted that every Japanese artist can copy Nature 
with greater fidelity and realism than any European. 
Will you take my word for it? ” 

“Yes!” answered the priest, throwing the end 
of his cigarette into the fire. 

“ And I think you will accept the decorative qual- 
ity of the pictures I have shown you? ” 

“ Certainly!” 

“ The Japanese first trains himself to observe 
with absolute accuracy, and to draw from a fault- 
less memory; then he cultivates an appreciation of 
what we call ‘ the inwardness of Nature.’ It is this 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 295 

inwardness of Nature that he tries to paint” John 
smoked in silence, collecting his thoughts for his 
last clause in his argument. 

“Forget painting, and think of writing for a 
moment, Father Thrapstone,” he continued. “ In 
writing, any trained journalist could describe the 
actual stages of a sunset or the mist stealing up 
the valley, with great accuracy; but it would require 
more than this quality of observation to make either 
a poem or an essay. The poet or essayist must 
possess intense powers of sympathy, understanding, 
and idealism. What the poet or essayist aims at 
in his writing, the Japanese artist aims at in his 
painting.” 

I am beginning to perceive the inwardness of 
your argument,” owned the Jesuit. 

“ I think you will see it when you read his book,” 
said Betty, gently; and she let her hand touch 
John’s for one second. 

Betty had retired to her room, had clothed her- 
self in a new and glorious kimono which her hus- 
band had unearthed when hunting out his pictures, 
and was preparing to do her hair. She had sent 
her maid to bed, for her day had been so happy 
that she wished to be alone with her thoughts, and 


296 BETTY STANDISH 

dream that everything was coming right between 
herself and John. 

There was a knock at the door and, thinking that 
it was the maid, she did not trouble to turn round. 
Then she saw the reflection of John’s face in the 
looking-glass. 

“Oh! ” she cried, for it was the first time that 
her husband had come into her bedroom since they 
were back at Tracey. Then she added hastily: 
“ I’m so glad you came up. I wanted to tell you 
what an awfully happy day I’ve had. How do you 
like my kimono? ” 

“ It’s put on wrong! ” answered he. He knew 
that he was playing with fire; but his time was 
getting short, and he could not resist seeing Betty 
for one minute after their happy day together. 

“ How? ” asked she. 

u You see, a kimono should be fastened from left 
to right,” he explained. “ The left side should lap 
over the right, so that when you walk the folds 
sweep from left to right — that’s why Japanese 
women look so graceful.” 

u Would — you — mind — doing it up for me — 
properly? That’s if it wouldn’t be too much 
trouble.” She was all demureness: butter would 
not have melted in her mouth. 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 297 

She seemed to have been winning all day; she 
felt his hands trembling as he did up the folds of 
the kimono, and his arrangement of the obi came 
perilously near an embrace; and now, all that was 
sweet and womanly in her rose to the surface, and 
she resolved to win her battle. “ Would you like 
to stay whilst I brush my hair? ” asked Betty. 

“ Yes! ” answered Tracey, huskily. 

She removed the hairpins, and her hair fell round 
her like a cope of gold. 

Now, a cloth-of-gold cope is the least becoming 
vestment in the world, and (although no woman 
seems able to realise this) the cloak of a woman’s 
hair is but little more becoming. In its natural state, 
when the separate hairs blend into locks, each lock 
tapering gracefully, the fall of a woman’s hair may 
be as graceful as a field of meadow-grass; but when 
the hair has been trimmed and tended, until each 
hair hangs separately and the ends grow thick and 
level, it is no more beautiful than a fortnight’s 
growth of grass on a tennis lawn. Besides, since 
women wear their hair up and children wear theirs 
down, a woman with her hair down looks as though 
she were aping a child. 

John felt all this; he felt his blood return to its 
normal pressure; arid he ventured to sit on, chatting 


29B BETTY STANDISH 

about the book, Father Thrapstone, and their con- 
versation. 

Then Betty began to plait her hair — and, as she 
plaited, she seemed to resume her womanhood; but 
this time her beauty struck him in a new and more 
personal sense, just as though he were being ad- 
mitted to the intimacy of his wife’s toilet. 

“I wonder what you remind me of?” he said 
dreamily. “ Is it a Margherita? ” 

She shook her head, for the piece of ribbon with 
which she was going to tie her hair was between 
her lips. 

“ It’s something I have seen,” he continued — 
“ something very beautiful.” 

She removed the ribbon from her lips, and tied 
the end of her first plait, glancing at him rather 
nervously. 

“ No ! ” he muttered. “ It isn’t that — it’s — it’s 
Botticelli’s Venus — the one with the plaits.” 

Do what she would, the girl could not help her 
face growing crimson, and a feeling of excessive 
shyness coming over her. Everything was so 
strange and so totally unlike anything she could have 
imagined. 

Then, making a violent effort, John pulled 
himself together: for Betty’s blushes and Betty’s 


THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOOK 299 

embarrassment had reached his dulled brain. He 
rose, and with a brave attempt at a smile, kissed 
her gently on the forehead and left the room. 

As he passed through the hall, Peter got off his 
mat and followed him into the study. 

Oh ! what an ass I’ve made of myself, 
Peter! ” said John, picking up Peter in his arms. 
“ After keeping my head for months, and after 
making your mistress feel herself absolutely safe 

with me ! Mustn’t trust myself a day longer, 

Peter!” 

Peter did his best to do what many a Tracey 
spaniel had done before, and tried to comfort his 
master. 


CHAPTER XXX 


EXPERT ADVICE 

As soon as breakfast was finished, John Tracey had 
gone into Exeter to inspect a motor which he had 
ordered — when one intends to take an overdose of 
sleeping draught at night, it is wise to plan openly 
for the future during the day — so Betty was left 
alone with Father Thrapstone. 

The moment her husband had started for Exeter, 
Betty had put on a pair of stout boots and taken 
Peter for a swim in the river; but she had found 
that, although the sound of running water may be 
a comfort to the worried, it becomes a torture to 
the introspective. 

Why had not she left well alone? Why had not 
she been content with the very perfect comradeship 
that had sprung up between herself and John? Now 
she could not meet his eyes without blushing. 

Everything had been going so happily! At least 
three times during yesterday he had seemed within 
an ace of making love to her and had ended by 
coming up to her bedroom to kiss her good-night. 


300 


EXPERT ADVICE 


3 01 

Then she had taken the initiative, had asked him 
to do up what was practically her dressing-gown, 
and had invited him to stay whilst she went on with 
her toilet, and he had left her with a kiss on the 
forehead. She could never ! never ! never ! place her- 
self in a similar position! 

She wondered what could be the reason of John’s 
conduct. Of course she knew that Tom Courtenay’s 
letter had first upset him; but he had said that Tom 
had behaved well afterwards, and he had seemed 
to like him when he stayed at Tracey. It must be 
something to do with Shinto self-denial — and yet 
she knew nothing in the Shinto doctrine that would 
meet the case. 

How she wished she could ask some very wise 
person to advise her! If she had been born a 
Catholic, she might have gone into the confessional 
and consulted Father Thrapstone; but naturally this 
was out of the question. Anyhow, she might have 
a talk with him about Shinto, and she would do so 
at once. 

As Betty entered the morning-room, the Jesuit 
was saying his Office; he finished the remaining 
verses of the psalm that he was reading, took off 
his spectacles — placing them between the leaves of 
the Breviary to mark his place — laid the book 


302 


BETTY STANDISH 


beside him on the window-seat, and smiled at 
Betty. “ I hope you have enjoyed your walk? ” he 
asked. 

“ I want to have a talk with you, Father 
Thrapstone,” began Betty with determination. 

“ Yes? ” he answered, settling himself more com- 
fortably in his chair. 

“ I want you to tell me what you think about 
my husband’s religion.” 

“ What was it that St. Monica said about her son 
— something about a child of so many prayers not 
being lost — was not it? There are a great many 
persons who are praying for John Tracey! ” 

“Isn’t your answer rather cautious?” suggested 
Betty. 

He laughed softly to himself, and answered her 
question with another: “Do you remember my 
saying that I always thought of the story of the 
bloaters charging up the hill, whenever I mentioned 
your husband during Mass? ” 

“ Yes ! ” said Betty. 

“ That story gives the keynote of his bringing 
up. He was brought up in a sanctimonious atmos- 
phere — an unhealthy atmosphere. Even though 
he might have confused bloaters with soldiers, a 
healthy boy ought not to have pictured the soldiers 


EXPERT ADVICE 303 

charging up the hill with a fervent prayer! A 
healthy boy would have written ‘ Shouting their 
battle-cry, the bloaters charged up the hill.’ You 
can form no idea of the importance of a boy’s early 
education. That is why I always ask Almighty God 
to remember your husband’s bringing up, hence the 
memory of bloaters. I always consider that your 
husband’s education is responsible for his loss of 
faith.” 

“ I was not thinking so much of his loss of 
Christianity,” explained Betty. “ I was wondering 
what you thought of Shinto.” 

“ It is a most original religion for an Englishman 
to adopt,” he replied with a smile. 

“ Why? ” asked Betty. 

As his answer, the Jesuit took up one of the 
photographs which John had brought home with him 
and handed it to the girl. “ The peacock, amidst 
its natural surroundings,” he remarked, “ is a very 
graceful bird; but Peter,” and he pointed out of 
the window to where Peter, the peacock, was posing 
on the terrace, “ often looks positively ridiculous. 
Now, take any Japanese religious custom and you 
will find it graceful; but place the same custom 
amongst English surroundings and it loses its pro- 
portions. For instance, the custom of providing a 


304 


BETTY STANDISH 


small cup of sake and a small bowl of rice, so that 
the ancestors may feed on the ethereal essence, is 
quite graceful; but place a small whisky-and-soda 
and a small portion of roast beef with trimmings on 
a shelf, for the repast of one’s departed relatives, 
and the ceremony becomes an absurdity.” 

“ But,” protested Betty, “ isn’t it rather hard to 
condemn Shinto on these grounds? ” 

“Patience, Mrs. Tracey! I am only trying to 
show that it would be an original religion for an 
Englishman to adopt, because the essentials of cus- 
tom and society in the two countries are different. 
Take hara-kiri, for example; under certain circum- 
stances, self-destruction would be approved of by 
a man’s relations and leave a legacy of honour to 
a man’s wife and children; in England, suicide would 
be committed secretly, and the man would have no 
, idea what a legacy of sorrow and disgrace he might 
leave to those who were dearest to him.” 

“ It would be awful ! ” she cried. 

“ Now, to come to my point,” continued the priest, 
growing more earnest. “ A Catholic believes that 
the spirits of such of his ancestors as would wish 
to do him a spiritual evil go to a place where their 
influence is powerless; he believes that his good 
ancestors go where their prayers on his behalf have 


EXPERT ADVICE 305 

far more power for good than is conceivable under 
Shinto.” 

“ But how? ” asked Betty. 

“ The father of a Japanese dies, and his spirit is 
said to make wise suggestions; my father is dead, 
and he prays The Eternal Wisdom to guide me into 
His Wisdom. Again, the Japanese offers rice and 
sake to the spirit of his father; I offer prayers and 
Masses that the spirit of my father may have the 
fulness of eternal happiness. But we must remem- 
ber that your husband had an unusual education, 
and that he believes in that absurd 4 Book of the 
Traceys.’ ” 

“ Do you believe Shinto could have had any influ- 
ence on my husband’s life?” Betty felt that she 
was reaching her point with great diplomacy. 

“ That is a very wide question,” answered 
Father Thrapstone, smiling. “ Could not you 
specialise? ” 

“ On his ideas ” Her pause was the perfec- 

tion of diplomacy. “ On his ideas about marriage, 
for instance.” 

“No!” 

Here was a complete deadlock ! And yet, as Betty 
looked at the Jesuit’s face, she felt that instinctive 
impulse which prompts children and maidens to turn 


BETTY STANDISH 


306 

to old people who have led singularly sweet and pure 
lives. Besides, she was wretched enough to try any 
remedy. 

“ I suppose people who aren’t Catholics some- 
times ask your advice? ” 

“ Dozens! ” answered Father Thrapstone. 

“ And I suppose what they tell you is absolutely 
private? ” 

“ If you were to tell me that you had murdered 
Gill and hidden his body in the rhododendrons,” 
he answered merrily, “ I should not even look 
shocked when I met you at lunch.” 

“But there is something,” she said; “and — it’s 
awfully difficult to tell.” 

His manner changed, and he became serious with- 
out becoming grave. “ Perhaps that is why God 
sent me here,” he suggested. 

“ It’s awfully difficult to tell,” she repeated. 

He got up and took one of John’s cigarettes from 
the box on the mantelpiece — this poor child should 
not think that she was in the confessional; and he 
seated himself so that his face was in the light, 
whilst hers was in the shadow. She must see that 
he was neither trying to spy out her emotions, nor 
that he was shocked at anything she might tell 
him. 


307 


EXPERT ADVICE 

“ Now please remember,” he said, “ that every- 
thing you tell me is strictly confidential, and that I 
shall not ever refer to it again unless you wish 
me to.” 

Bit by bit her story came out; and, whenever she 
was at a loss, he seemed to know exactly what she 
wanted to say; and the strange part of it all was 
—but she never realised this till afterwards— that 
Betty did not feel the least atom shy. Also, from 
time to time, she heard him mutter “ Poor child! ” 
which comforted her. 

“ Now,” he said, when she had finished, “ let us 
try to get at the root of the matter and find the 
remedy. First let us eliminate the idea that he con- 
siders the marriage invalid — that scruple must have 
been killed by Mr. Courtenay’s letter which you 
showed him at Florence.” 

44 Yes ! ” said Betty. 

“ Have you ever thought about that wretched 
4 Book of the Traceys ’? ” 

44 No ! ” said Betty. 

44 If my memory serves me right, and I have 
argued enough about that book with old Mr. Tracey 
to know it by heart, 4 The Book of the Traceys’ 
records that every third Tracey had cause to be 
jealous of his wife. That starts your husband with 


308 BETTY STANDISH 

the preconceived notion of jealousy. Do you 
follow? ” 

Betty nodded her head. 

“ Let us try to reconstruct the case from your 
husband’s standpoint,” he continued. “ I understand 
that Mr. Courtenay was not wealthy, and I assume 
that he is good-looking? ” 

“Yes!” said Betty. 

“ Your husband marries you after what appears 
to have been a rather unusual engagement on both 
sides; he then discovers that you were engaged to 
a good-looking man of your own age, that you had 
only broken off your first engagement after he had 
proposed to you, and that you had not even been 
released from your first engagement. You follow 
me so far? ” 

She gave a sigh, for she was beginning to see the 
obvious deduction. 

“ Your husband knows that Mr. Courtenay was 
not well off, and concludes that your first engage- 
ment must have be<?n one of disinterested affection; 
he knows that he himself is exceedingly well off, 
with a fine position in society; he knows that he is 
many years your senior; he has also been brought 
up to expect an unhappy marriage ” 

“ You mean that he was jealous? ” cried Betty. 


EXPERT ADVICE 309 

‘ It appears so,” answered Father Thrapstone, 
dryly. 

“ But I married him! Oh! how could he? ” 

“ Gently! Mrs. Tracey. Thousands of girls have 
broken off their engagements to penniless men 
whom they could never marry, in order to marry 
richer men who were not distasteful to them.” 

She sat there biting her lips. This new idea 
seemed very hateful to her. 

“ 0^ course, I can understand that you would not 
have married John Tracey unless you loved him 
entirely,” he went on gently; “but do you know 
anything about jealousy? Have you ever been 
jealous? ” 

“ No! ” she answered miserably. 

“ Then you can have no idea what a crafty dis- 
ease it is! It is almost always unreasonable, mag- 
nifying little things, and overtaking great and ob- 
vious things. Has your husband ever given you 
cause to suspect jealousy? ” 

“ He has been sweet to me,” she sighed. 

“ Then think how he must have suppressed his 
feelings, and how they must have tormented him ! ” 

“ But ” she commenced, and her voice had a 

hard ring in it. 

“ I know exactly what you feel,” he protested, 


3 IQ 


BETTY STANDISH 


“ that jealousy implies a suspicion; but this is 
not so! Your husband has a chivalrous disposition, 
and if he once imagined that you were in love with 
Mr. Courtenay — and what you have told me about 
Mr. Courtenay’s letter is quite sufficient to have 
given him such an impression — he might well have 
imagined that any intimate attentions from himself 
would be distasteful to you. He might well have 
persuaded himself that you were over-persuaded into 
your marriage.” 

The pair of them sat thinking for some minutes. 

“ The matter which puzzles me,” remarked Fa- 
ther Thrapstone, “ is the matter of your husband’s 
intentions: he cannot mean that you two should 
continue in your present state for an indefinite time ! 
Perhaps,” he added hopefully, “ he means to wait 
for a time, and then to commence his courtship de 
novo.” 

“ I didn’t tell you that he came up to my room to 
say good-night last night — and I asked him to 
arrange my kimono — and — asked him to stay whilst 
I did my hair — and ” 

“ Oh ! ” muttered the Jesuit. He did not like the 
present situation, and he could not quite tell why. 
“ Have you ever told him how much you cared for 
him?” he asked presently. “I suppose that so 


EXPERT ADVICE 


3ii 

soon as you knew how deeply he loved you, and how 
deeply you loved him, it would have been impossible 
for you to marry Mr. Courtenay. Is not this a 
fact?” 

“ Yes ! ” she sighed. 

“ Then tell him so, Mrs. Tracey! Tell him how 
much you care for him ! ” 

“ He is so difficult! And ” 

“ Yes ! Yes ! I know you will find it hard ! But 
there is such a thing as mock-modesty, and there is 
a shame that brings honour. Remember that you 
have right on your side. And,” he added, rising, 
“ remember that your action will be very modest in 
God’s sight.” 

He heard her give a deep sigh. 

“ Now, I am going to take a turn on the terrace 
and leave you to think matters over,” concluded 
Father Thrapstone, as he moved towards the door. 
“ Do not forget how much you care for your hus- 
band and how much he cares for you — and, above 
all, remember that you are the only person who can 
set this affair right.” He paused, with his hand 
on the door-handle, and looked back: “ If I can 
ask God to remember your husband’s unfortunate 
bringing up and have patience, I can ask his wife 
to be equally merciful.” 


312 


BETTY STANDISH 


Father Thrapstone took several turns on the 
terrace, walking rapidly to accelerate his circulation, 
then he leant over the balustrade and felt in his 
pocket for a cigar. It was contrary to his custom, 
this smoking before lunch; but great evils need des- 
perate remedies, and great problems need drastic 
methods of solution — the cigar which he produced 
was one of those long, dark Italian abominations, 
with a straw down the centre, and drastic enough 
to solve any problem. He lit it carefully. 

First he tried the logical method of elimination: 
it was absurd to imagine that John Tracey could 
contemplate a married life of perpetual celibacy — - 
such a scheme would be too unjust towards Mrs. 
Tracey. After what Betty had told him about her 
last night’s throwing down of the glove the idea 
of a year’s platonism, with a subsequent courtship 
and honeymoon, was equally absurd. He could 
think of no other worthy subject of elimination, and 
he found himself left with no tangible remainder. 
So he started another method. 

He tried to imagine himself John Tracey, with 
Tracey’s strange education, Tracey’s strange code 
of ethics, Tracey’s keen sense of honour, and the 
fear of the Tracey luck. He was married to a girl 
whom he loved intensely, and discovered that she 


EXPERT ADVICE 


3i3 


was equally in love with a younger man. Perhaps 
she had been persuaded into the marriage. What 
should he do? 

Should he take what the gods had sent him? A 
coarser man might do so, but not he, John Tracey! 
For was not sensual passion simply loathsome, un- 
less it were refined by true and mutual affection? 
Besides, there was the girl to think of. What 
should he do? 

The subject that he had just been talking about 
— hara-kiri — flashed into his mind. Faugh! — an 
Englishman — the idea was too monstrous! And, 
yet, was not John Tracey an Englishman with 
Japanese ethics? And if he removed himself 
without any scandal, would not he leave Betty free 
to marry the man she had set her heart on? And 
would not he be removing the unfortunate Traceys 
with their wretched curse? The Jesuit remem- 
bered what Betty had told him about her husband 
teaching her to manage the estate; and, flinging his 
cigar on the terrace, Father Thrapstone hurried 
towards the house. 

“Well?” asked he, as he entered the morning- 
room. 

“ I have made up my mind,” said Betty, coming 
forward to meet him, and holding out both her 


314 


BETTY STANDISH 


hands. “ I will do what you advise, but,” and she 
gave a nervous laugh, “whatever shall I say?” 

“ I am only a foolish old man,” answered the 
Jesuit. 

“ After what you’ve advised me? ” 

“ But I am not foolish enough to attempt to 
teach a woman tact. But, you’ll strike whilst the 
iron’s hot, Mrs. Tracey? ” 

“ Yes! ” she answered. 

“ You might wait until we have retired to-night, 
and see your husband in his study? ” 

“ I will! ” she promised. 

Father Thrapstone gave a sigh of relief, for he 
was anxious not to breathe his suspicions to Betty. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE PREPARATION 

John Tracey went to Exeter with a set purpose. 
Incidentally, he intended to bring home his new 
motor if it were ready; incidentally, he proposed 
to lunch at the Devon and Exeter Club and show 
himself; incidentally, he proposed to buy something 
for Betty; but his real quest was a blue, three- 
cornered eight-ounce bottle. For, if he meant to 
make a mistake in his sleeping-draught, he must 
provide a bottle for the diluted mixture that was 
a reasonable match to the one which held the con- 
centrated extract of “ datura.” 

Now the shopping town of Exeter consists of 
practically one street: outside this street, John was 
as much a stranger as he would have been in 
Birmingham. So he sought out chemists in by- 
streets and side-streets and told them to make up a 
certain lotion for curing the mange in dogs. It was 
a poisonous lotion, and might reasonably be put up 
in special bottles; and, since the present poison act 
had not come into force, he had not to give his 
315 


3 i6 


BETTY STANDISH 


name and address. He got bottles that were green 
or white, one square bottle that was blue — this he 
kept; twice he had to take the tram and walk until 
he found a country lane, where he could empty his 
pockets and stamp the bottles to pieces. Finally he 
secured a blue, three-cornered bottle which was a 
match to the one which contained the “ datura.” 
Then he went to lunch. 

After lunch, Tracey visited the garage and found 
that, although the motor was ready, there was an 
indefinite something wrong with the carburation, and 
that it would be wise to leave the car until it had 
been tuned to suit the heavy Devonshire climate; so 
he returned by train and walked home from the 
station. When he was half-way up the drive, 
he took a path which had been made as a short 
cut. 

There is a small runnel of water which crosses 
this path, and when John had reached it, he 
stopped, listened, and, taking out the two bottles of 
dog lotion, placed them in the water so as to soak 
off the labels — the evening had already fallen and 
he had to work by sense of touch, but the darkness 
made him safe from inquisitive eyes. He then 
emptied the contents of the three-cornered bottle 
and floated the cork down the stream — listening care- 


THE PREPARATION 317 

fully all the while — washed out the bottle, and re- 
turned the empty three-cornered bottle and the full 
square bottle to his pockets. He felt that if, during 
the inquest, there should be any question about the 
bottle which had contained the sleeping-draught, he 
had covered his tracks. 

When he arrived at the house, he handed the full 
bottle to Gill, telling him to give the lotion to Wey- 
mouth with directions that it must be rubbed on 
Patience, night and morning, and that, since it was 
poison, Patience must be kept muzzled. He left 
the empty bottle in his coat pocket, judging that 
the thick homespun would prevent the bottle from 
bumping when Gill hung up the overcoat. Then 
he went to the drawing-room. 

Have you ever gone out of a very chilly and un- 
comfortable February evening, after a hard and 
dispiriting day’s work, into a large room warmed 
by a bright wood fire and lit by a few shaded wax 
candles? Have you ever entered such a room, and 
found it occupied by two other persons whose 
hearts were warm towards you? If so, you will 
understand what Tracey felt as he entered the 
drawing-room. 

Betty did not rise to meet him as she would have 
done yesterday or the day before; she held out the 


BETTY STANDISH 


318 

hand that was nearest him, took his hand, and 
placed it against her cheek. 

“ Oh! you poor, cold thing! ” she said. 

“ I’m not really cold! ” he explained. “ It’s only 
my hands. I walked back from the station. The 
motor isn’t quite ready; its mixture’s wrong — or the 
ignition — or something.” 

“ And what have you brought? ” asked she, still 
holding his hand against her cheek and looking up at 
him. It was their rule that the one who went into 
Exeter should bring back something interesting. 

He put his free hand in his coat pocket and, 
bringing out a large box, dropped it on her lap. 
He moved his imprisoned hand until the back of 
it stroked her cheek gently. “ Marrons glaces and 
preserved violets,” said he. 

“ You darling! ” 

John’s heart gladdened, because the last night’s 
awkwardness was evidently forgiven, and he did not 
want to leave her with any hard thoughts in her 
mind about him. 

“ I also brought some lotion for poor Patience,” 
he added. 

“ Who is Patience? ” inquired the Jesuit. 

“ She’s a little girl spaniel,” explained Betty. 
“ She’s always been delicate, and has lately dis- 


THE PREPARATION 


3i9 


graced our kennels by developing mange — goodness 
knows how — and it would break Weymouth’s heart 
to lose her. Anything else, John? ” 

“ If you’ll kindly let go my hand — thanks ! ” and 
he dropped a small box where he had dropped the 
chestnuts. 

“ Oh, you dear! ” she cried, holding up a delicate 
ring set with a circle of very small diamonds. 

“ I think it’s a ring made by one of the French 
emigres,” he remarked, seating himself on the arm 
of his wife’s chair. “ There were several of them 
who became jewellers in these parts. I found it at 
Phillipps, in the High Street.” 

“ Stoop down! ” said Betty; and she put her arm 
round his neck and held up her lips. 

Before he had realised what he was doing, he had 
kissed them. 

“ I must be going,” he muttered, flushing scarlet. 
“ I’ve some letters to write. Gill can bring my tea 
into the study.” 

“You wonder-worker!” said Betty, turning to 
Father Thrapstone, as the door closed after her 
husband. “ You’ve made everything so easy for 
me ! ” 

The Jesuit smiled at her, and, taking off his spec- 
tacles, wiped them. “ You rather gave me the im- 


BETTY STANDISH 


320 

pression that I had involved you in a delicate and 
difficult piece of diplomacy,” he answered. “ But, 
as I said, I am not foolish enough to imagine that 
I understand women.” 

“Oh! that was only my pride!” she explained 
airily. “ It passed in a minute.” 

“ So I supposed! But if you would explain how 
I have made everything so easy for you, Mrs. 
Tracey, I should be grateful. The situation has a 
psychological interest.” 

“ When I knew I loved him, and he was so 
strange,” she said meditatively, “ everything was 
almost impossible. But the moment I knew that he 

loved me and thought I didn’t love him You 

understand? ” 

“ Perfectly! ” he answered, with a chuckle. 
“ But,” and he grew grave, “ you will speak to him 
to-night, so soon as the house is quiet? ” 

“ I will speak to him to-night! ” said Betty. 

John Tracey sat down at his study-table and 
buried his face in his hands. She had made it 
hard for him! It was the first time, since their 
estrangement, that he had kissed her lips; and the 
thought of leaving her now was almost unbearable. 
Suppose, for one moment, that he had been mis- 


THE PREPARATION 


321 


taken, and that she really cared for him! Suppose 
that she had got over her love for Courtenay! But 
what a fool he was ! Last night showed him, 
beyond any possibility of a possible doubt, how she 
instinctively shrank from anything more than a 
warm friendship with him. Her sweetness to him, 
just now in the drawing-room, was her sweetness; 
the awkwardness, last night in her bedroom, must 
have shown her how he longed for the natural 
married life, and she was ready to do her duty 
ungrudgingly. She had married him, and she was 
prepared to drink the cup to the dregs. Thank Fate 
— or whoever muddled things — that last night he 
had caught her unprepared, and had seen exactly 
what she felt. It was only five o’clock, and he had 
to bear his misery another seven hours. Then he 
heard Gill coming with the tea, and, straightening 
himself in his chair, pulled the pile of manuscript 
before him and turned the top half over. 

As he sipped his tea, he began to perceive a ray 
of comfort: Betty always went to bed at ten-thirty, 
and Father Thrapstone would retire at the same 
time; at ten-thirty, John was accustomed to go to 
his study with the standing order that he must not 
be disturbed. He could save himself an hour and 
a half of suspense by taking the “ datura ” the 


322 BETTY STANDISH 

moment he retired to his study; and next morning, 
no one could tell whether he had died at half-past ten 
or midnight. He would save time by making his 
preparations now. 

Placing the bottle of 4< datura ” in his pocket, 
and fetching the empty bottle from his coat in the 
hall, he went into the lavatory : there he mixed about 
a wineglassful of the regulation sleeping-draught 
and poured it into the empty bottle. He had thrown 
away the original cork for fear it might contain 
traces of mercury — or whatever poison they put into 
dog-lotion— and the question of a cork worried him 
until he remembered that there was a box of small 
corks in the gun-room. Then it occurred to him 
that the doctor would give evidence at the inquest, 
and that the doctor must have cause to imagine that 
John had taken the sleeping-draught pretty regularly, 
and had grown careless. So he emptied most of 
the drug into the lavatory basin and washed out 
the basin. 

Finally, he returned to the study, wrote “ Sleep- 
ing Draught ” on a small label, gummed the label 
on the bottle which contained the diluted solution 
and, placing both bottles in his safe — labels facing 
inwards — locked the safe door, and sat down at his 
study-table. 


THE PREPARATION 


323 

The last sentence in one of the chapters of his 
manuscript caught his eye : 

“The best type of European regards himself as 
one of the pillars of a building: the pillar must be 
in good repair, but the pillar is always reparable. 
The typical Japanese regards himself as a drop of 
water in a clear lake: the drop may evaporate and 
it will be replaced by a drop of rain; but the drop 
must not become muddy, else it will become a 
source of defilement to the whole. And thus, when 
personal honour is lost, or even tarnished, and the 
Japanese becomes a defilement to his country, 
honour demands that the man shall evaporate into 
the clouds from whence he came; and by this 
obedience to the dictates of honour — by this last act 
of repentance and reparation — the man shall regain 
his honour.” 

“Too general!” muttered Tracey; and, as the 
page happened to be in his handwriting, not Betty’s, 
and as there was room for another paragraph, he 
added: 

“ To the European gentleman, who is above all 
things an individualist, the idea of suicide is repug- 


324 


BETTY STANDISH 


nant; for the European regards his honour as part 
of himself, and, if his honour be lost, he himself 
must regain his honour. But the Japanese regards 
his honour as part of his country’s honour, and the 
self-effacement of a dishonourable individual is a 
cleansing of the country’s defilement. 4 If thy 
hand offend thee, cut it off ! ’ is the maxim of the 
individual Christian. 1 Thou art the hand of thy 
country and if the hand offend, cut it off ! ’ is the 
maxim of the Shintoist. 

“ Suicide is no disgrace to the Japanese, no 
shirking of difficulties, and above all no act of 
cowardice. If a man should, either wittingly or 
unwittingly, have become a cause of injury to others, 
let him remove the cause of injury as a supreme 
self-sacrifice to the cause of honour.” 

Then John Tracey laid down his pen, placed the 
page where it should come in the volume, and lit a 
cigarette. He knew that the ink would turn black 
long before his manuscript would be read, and that 
his last written paragraph would convey no sugges- 
tion of his own self-destruction. 

He looked at his watch — six-thirty — only four 
hours more ! So, throwing his cigarette in the fire 
and lighting a cigar, he sought an easy chair and 


THE PREPARATION 


325 


went over every detail for the last time. Everything 
seemed in perfect order. Stay! He had forgotten 
one detail : he must leave a message explaining 
his mistake. He might write the message now, 
trying to simulate the writing of a man who was 
being overcome by the action of the drug; but such 
writing might not carry conviction. It would be 
far better to place a pencil in readiness, seize the 
first piece of paper that came handy — the top page 
of his manuscript would do — and write as soon as 
he felt the narcotic overpowering him. He won- 
dered how rapid the action of the “ datura ” would 
be — would he have time to write “ Have taken the 
wrong bottle by mistake ”? If he could only man- 
age to scrawl “ Wrong bottle,” the message would 
be sufficient. 

He would take the drug. He would begin to feel 
very sleepy and struggle to write the message. 
Then his head would drop forward over his hands, 
and he would sink on the table. He would breathe 
very heavily for some minutes, and lie still. After 

that ? Well, if there were any truth in the 

Shinto doctrine, he would be free to do all that a 
spirit might do for Betty. 

There was just time to go into the drawing-room 
and show himself before he dressed for dinner. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 

Nine-tenths of those who fail in life, fail through 
a lack of self-confidence; and Betty’s married life 
had, so far, been one disquieting puzzle. Now that 
she knew the cause of her husband’s strangeness 
and realised that he loved her intensely, she felt very 
sure of herself and needed no advice from Father 
Thrapstone — or from anyone else — to tell her what 
she should do. 

Whilst John was planning in his study, Betty was 
busy decorating the dinner-table. She had banished 
all flowers of a pronounced colour from her scheme, 
and was using the palest of yellow chrysanthemums 
and the young fronds of maidenhair: if she had not 
been lavish with the blossoms the general effect 
would have been poor and anaemic — even as it was, 
the scheme seemed to need some note of colour to 
form an accent. When she had finished, she re- 
moved the shades from the candles, so that the light 
might fall on the diners as well as the dinner-table, 
326 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 327 

and returned to Father Thrapstone in the drawing- 
room. 

“ I have been meaning to ask you a question all 
day,” she said, settling herself in the most comforta- 
ble chair she could find. 

“Yes?” he answered, and prepared himself to 
listen. 

“ What do you think of ‘ The Book of the 
Traceys ’ ? ” 

“ I think that it is a very unwholesome book,” 
he replied cautiously. 

“ But, do you think it’s real? ” 

“ The parchment is undoubtedly old,” he 
acknowledged, “ and I have always fancied that 
some of the earliest entries are genuine; but ” 

“Well?” she asked, leaning forward. 

“ There is a certain morbid book in the library — 
it is in manuscript and is entitled ‘ The Meditations 
of Dame Barbara ’ — perhaps you know it? ” 

She nodded her head, for the same Meditations 
had given her a very miserable half-hour. 

“ Dame Barbara’s Meditations and the record of 
a certain Thomas Tracey, in ‘ The Book of the 
Traceys,’ are written in the same handwriting, and 
both were probably written in the middle of the 


328 BETTY STANDISH 

eighteenth century. You can draw your own 
deductions ! ” 

“ Please give me your deductions ! ” she begged. 

“ The account of Thomas Tracey purports to be 
written by Thomas Tracey himself. It also states 
that the aforesaid Thomas was of a pious 
disposition. He was evidently a scholar, he wrote 
a beautiful hand, and if he were really guilty of 

‘ The Meditations of Dame Barbara ’ ” and he 

chuckled dryly. 

“ Then you refuse to deduce, Father Thrap- 
stone? ” said she, reproachfully. 

“ A man who was capable of describing himself 
as ‘of a pious disposition * would be capable of 
anything! But, see here, Mrs. Tracey,” he 
continued; “after to-day, you will be able to do 
what you like with your husband. Persuade him to 
send the manuscript to the librarian of the British 
Museum, with a request for the best possible expert 
opinion, and a statement that expense would be no 
object.” 

“ I will ! ” she cried. 

“ Because — well — I said just now that ‘ The 
Book of the Traceys ’ was a very unwholesome book 
— I consider it to be a very dangerous book.” 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 329 

“ It might have been written by ” suggested 

Betty, raising her eyebrows. 

“ Exactly! ” answered he with a gleam of amuse- 
ment. “ You have stated my second reason for 
desiring an expert opinion. If the manuscript were 
not forged by poor Thomas Tracey — an original 
manuscript written by the devil would be of the 
greatest literary interest.” And again the Jesuit 
chuckled gleefully. 

“ Father Thrapstone,” said Betty, softly, “ I can’t 
tell you what you’ve been to me to-day. I didn’t 
want to dwell on things, and plan what I should say 
to my husband, and become self-conscious — it would 
spoil everything; I want to be just myself, and say 
whatever comes into my head. If you had been 
earnest and serious — but you haven’t ! I shall never 
be able to thank you ! ” 

“ It is nothing,” answered the Jesuit, nervously. 
“ It is only what one is sent into the world 
for.” 

“ I know you hate being thanked,” she said; “ and 
I’m not going to thank you.” 

Then Tracey came in from his study and, after 
some minutes’ conversation, Betty retired to gown 
herself. 

Now there are two ways in which a woman may 


330 


BETTY STANDISH 


gown herself: she may dress elaborately in the 
latest fashion, in which case the dress dominates 
her; or she may dress to suit her particular style 
and bring out her personal beauty. Betty chose 
the wiser course and, in her gown of maize satin — 
just a shade duller than her hair — cut rather low 
and made very simply, it was the woman that at- 
tracted notice, and not the dress. When she had 
pinned some yellow chrysanthemums on her 
shoulder, and was seated at the dinner-table, the 
whole formed one colour harmony. 

It was a strange dinner, and Father Thrapstone 
felt that he was an onlooker and that onlookers see 
most of the game. 

He could see that John and Betty were playing to 
one another, and that each was so intent on the 
part that neither seemed to detect the artificiality in 
the other. He could understand the confidence 
with which the girl claimed her husband’s admira- 
tion, and he knew that she was preparing the way 
for what she intended to tell him as soon as the 
servants had gone to bed and the house was quiet; 
but he could not understand Tracey’s behaviour — 
for, if John believed that Betty cared for Courtenay, 
he was not the man to flirt with her, and if he had 
just discovered that he had been mistaken (and that 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 331 

Betty loved him) he would hardly treat the matter 
so lightly. All the time, the light from the candles 
was making Betty’s eyes look like sapphires. 

Dinner was finished and the coffee had been 
brought in. Betty had stayed on, as she often did 
when she and John were dining together. 

“ How would you like to spend a year in 
Japan?” suggested Tracey, stirring his coffee. 
“ I’ve still the cottage — I hadn’t the heart to sell it; 
and everything here’s in apple-pie order.” 

“ Do you really mean it?” she asked, with her 
eyes sparkling. 

“ Yes! ” he answered. “ Everything here can be 
left for at least twelve months.” He was glad that 
he had thought of the plan, for Betty would remem- 
ber it after his death, and feel that she could go 
abroad with a clear conscience. 

“ I should love it! ” she said. 

“ Eve been planning a new book.” He knew that 
a man who makes cheerful plans for the future is 
not likely to be suspected of suicide. “ I suppose 
our book’s made me ambitious; but a book written 
in Japan, describing the country and not the people, 
would be a fascinating subject to work at.” 

“John,” and she looked at him shyly, “it 


332 


BETTY STANDISH 


sounds heavenly — we’ll write the book together, 
won’t we? — it sounds like a bit of paradise.” 

He was thankful that he had already faced the 
situation in his study, and that he had seen through 
Betty’s wiles and loved her for them: she had 
shrank from him last night, and now she was offer- 
ing herself to him in the noblest spirit of self-sacri- 
fice that a woman could be capable of. He watched 
her hungrily, resolving to take his step the very 
moment he retired to his study lest he should be 
tempted to fall from his path of honour. 

“ John,” she said, and then paused as if to gather 
up her determination, “ John, I’ve something I want 
to tell you. Father Thrapstone wanted me to tell 
you in your study this evening. But as he knows all 
about it, I’m going to tell you now. It seems 
straighten” 

“ Yes,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and won- 
dering what on earth was coming. 

“ Our marriage has been an awful puzzle to me,” 
she continued, speaking in a queer, jerky way, 
almost as though she were saying a lesson. 
“ Sometimes I thought you cared for me and some- 
times you’ve been awfully strange. I was so 
wretched about it all, that I spoke to Father Thrap- 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 333 

stone and asked him to tell me if I could do any- 
thing— I’d no one else I could go to, and I felt that 
he cared for both of us-and he told me to tell you 
the truth.” 

She drew a deep breath. “ You were telling me 
the truth when you asked me to marry you and 
said you loved me so much that you were frightened 
to death that the Tracey curse would come between 
us?” 

He nodded his head, because he would have 
found it difficult to say anything. 

“ You 8* ve me your word of honour that you 
did? ” 

“ Yes! ” he muttered. 

“ And couldn’t you see that I’d fallen in love with 
you, just as much as you had with me? Do you 
think I’d have let you kiss me as I did? Do you 
think I’d almost have asked you to kiss me, like I 
did when you told me how frightened you were 
about our not getting married, unless I’d loved 
you ? ” 

John was looking dazed and stupid. 

“ Do you know why I threw Tom over? ” She 
gave a strange little laugh : “ Oh yes ! He behaved 
badly, and wanted me to ask you to lend him money, 
and was awfully sorry for it by the next post— but 


BETTY STANDISH 


334 

do you know why I threw him over? It was be- 
cause I could never have married him, or anyone, 
after I knew I loved you ! And do you know why 
I married you, John? It was because I could no 
more help saying ‘ yes,’ than you could help asking 
” 

me. 

She had forgotten that Father Thrapstone was 
in the room; she had forgotten about everything 
except her husband. “ John,” she said — “ about the 
life we’re leading — I believe it’s just because you 
think I don’t love you — I didn’t realise it until this 
morning. But if you’ve got some real reason, tell 
me and I shall be perfectly happy. I’d rather live 
with you — as your friend, than — — ” 

He was staring down at his plate, as though he 
were perfectly dazed ; but she looked at him 
until she forced him to raise his eyes to meet 
hers. 

“ If you want to go on living as — as friends — and 
tell me your true reason — I shall be perfectly — per- 
fectly happy; but if you want me as your wife ” 

and all the pent-up love of the last four months 
found its way into the look she gave him. Then she 
rose and left the room quietly. 

It was Father Thrapstone who opened the door 
for her. John was sitting at the table, trying to 


AND COUNTER PREPARATION 335 

concentrate his thoughts and prevent the room from 
growing misty and wavy. 

Go to her, man! Go to her! ” — and John 
found that the Jesuit was shaking him roughly. He 
staggered up, and went quickly towards the door, 
gaining strength at each step. 



































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MAR IS 1913 














